Cross me off your bucket list
by Hanna-NotMontana
Summary: John has feelings, Sherlock has a bucket list. Not that he remembers it. But when he finds it, and John reads it, things in 221B might start to change.
1. Prologue - 1

_I found my old bucket list, did some research on bucket lists on the Internet and well... Bucket-List!Sherlock was born._  
**DISCLAIMER FOR THE WHOLE STORY:**_ I do not own BBC's Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson and any of the other characters. They belong to Moffat, Gatiss and ACD._  
_**AMAZING COVER ART** by manic the hedgehog (fanfiction net)/sasukeuzumaki001 (tumblr)_  
_Love, Hanna_

* * *

They're back from a case, and Sherlock is unusually annoyed with it. He's solved it, without a problem, so maybe that is part of why he is annoyed – there hasn't been a real puzzle, the case only being a three and maybe he regrets even leaving the house.

But when they are finally settling down for the night, Sherlock perched in his chair and John on the sofa, laptop balancing on his legs while he sips tea and tries to think of a name for the solved case, the real, main reason for his annoyance bubbles out of Sherlock all of the sudden: "Are people actually that stupid? Working off a list of things they want to do before they die? Why do they even need lists for that?"

_Ah, so that is it._ John sighs when he tries to come up with a delicate way to explain the concept of a bucket list to Sherlock.

"It's mainly a thing kids do, I think. Or teenagers. It helps them focus on goals in their lives, things they want to achieve, want to experience-" he pauses for a moment, then he smiles. "I had one of those, too."

"Does 'being shot in Afghanistan' rank high on that list?" Sherlock replies snarkily, obviously still annoyed with the concept he doesn't understand or doesn't want to understand.

"Very funny," John replies drily, but it's already working in his mind. "Actually, I think I brought that list here… it's gotta be in one of the boxes on the bottom of my wardrobe… I'll go and look for it." It's more for his own amusement, now, but maybe Sherlock's mood will lighten when he can laugh about 15-year-old John's dreams and goals.

"I'd try the black one at the very bottom if I were you. Once you dig through your quite impressive porn collection, you get to love letters of at least four former girlfriends and other sentimental compositions," Sherlock calls after him when he begins to climb the stairs and John simply shakes his head, not wanting to know why Sherlock has been going through his belongings in the first place.

And just for the record, his porn collection is not 'impressive'.

X

"'_8. Kiss the prettiest girl in school' _– really, John?"

"Oi, I was 15 – and just for the record, I did!" John argues, feeling the need to defend his 15-year-old-self. "And I even went out with Becky for about a month!"

Sherlock is not impressed. "If that's the same Becky you're Facebook friends with, then I'd like to congratulate you on splitting up. She's the one with the four kids and six cats, right?"

John blushes a bit and tries to defend her – admittedly half-heartedly, because she's gotten a bit slutty and now has a kind of sad life – before snatching the list out of Sherlock's hand.

Many things, he has accomplished over the years – _1. Become a doctor, 6. Travel to a place you've never dreamt of going to_ (okay, so Afghanistan was technically not a holiday, but still – he'd never dreamt of going there before he'd joined the RAMC) – and _10. Find a friend you trust with your life._

15-year-old John had not been lonely, in fact, he was rather popular and had many good friends, but he'd always wanted someone like… well, someone like Sherlock.

43-year-old John looks up from the bucket list and at the messy, curled up pile of consulting detective in the chair across him and smiles fondly. While he could've lived without the throwing-myself-down-a-building-and-pretending-to- be-dead-for-six-months part, he definitely can't live without Sherlock, can't and doesn't want to imagine his life without him (ever again). He trusts the madman with his life, which is surprising since he doesn't trust Sherlock with his _own_ life. Well, that's what he has John for, right?

And so John grabs a pen from the coffee table nearby and scribbles a line through 10.

That catches Sherlock's attention and he snags the paper out of John's hand again, furrows his brows and finally, his eyes snap up to meet John's. The look on his face is priceless when he figures out what John means by that and although he is usually the first in line to say something narcissistic (though he doesn't mean it like that most of the time, it's just that he really believes he's better than the rest of, well, humanity) the "You mean me" that comes out of his mouth is quiet, almost unbelieving in his own deduction, and the slightest bit uncomfortable because he's never good with sentiment.

"Obviously," John says, in an imitation of Sherlock, but it's said in a friendly tone, not mocking the socially awkward genius.

"That's uhm… good." Sherlock clears his throat. The strange silence between them lasts for another moment, and then Sherlock is up and swirling around the flat again, bustling about, pushing papers from one place to another and suddenly announces: "I'm going to bed!" before he sweeps out of the room. Seconds later, the door to his bedroom bangs and John is mildly concerned, because even if Sherlock decides to sleep – rare enough – he NEVER uses his bedroom for that. Then again, Sherlock is always full of surprises and using his bed to sleep in is probably a good one.

Giving his Bucket List one last look, John settles down with his laptop again and starts typing about the man who'd been working on his bucket list, gone sky-diving and had impaled himself on a fence. Oh, the irony.

X

Three days later, John comes home from Tesco, and finds the flat in a state of debris. It looks like a tornado has gone through – there's paper and books everywhere, the sofa is turned upside down and balancing a chair on top, leaning against the bookshelf as if someone (Sherlock, no doubt) had tried to build a make-do ladder. Not that the lanky git needed that.

The devastation continues throughout the entire kitchen – _we have a saucepan?!_ John thinks as he tries to set down the shopping on the counters that are littered with the contents of every cupboard and drawer they own – and from the way the bathroom door is slightly ajar, there's probably more havoc caused in there, as well.

John decides he doesn't even want to know how his room looks, if the state of the main part of the flat is anything to go by, and simply calls out for the – most likely – source of the desolation.

Seconds later, he hears some cursing and then Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, still in his dressing gown from earlier, and triumphantly waving a piece of paper in his hands.

"I found it, John!" he announces, disregarding the grim face John makes regarding the state of the flat, and instead sweeping down papers, cutlery and two mugs from the table and onto the floor before smacking the paper on the free spot.

"Sherlock!" John calls out as the mugs break, but the detective simply waves him off dismissively.

"Oh, the flat's a mess already-"

"_I wonder why!"_

"-and this is more important. You see, the case from three days ago made me think – there's a grain of truth in every rumour, so they say, so there has to be a reason for compiling bucket lists. As you so pointedly put it, to focus someone's thoughts," Sherlock explains, and John realizes he's about to be introduced to a new experiment or case. "Now, I have deleted it, but the memory came back when you retrieved your own feeble attempt at a bucket list-"

John tries not to be too insulted. _He doesn't mean it like that, he doesn't mean it like that_ is his mantra.

"- and I realized that one of my teachers made us do something equally ridiculous back in the days." The detective slightly taps the table with the piece of paper again. "Now I want to compare the goals my highly functioning mind set with the one's boring people set so I can find out in what degree writing down these goals actually contributes to one achieving them."

"So… you're basically saying you're going to check on your bucket list and possibly keep working on it?" John sums up, eyeing the folded sheet of paper with some interest. He doesn't know much about Sherlock's past, and it would be interesting to get a glimpse of Sherlock as a kid, full of hopes and ambitions on what to do with his later life – then again, he was probably not so different from now, seeing as he still behaves like a kid at times.

"I didn't say anything about working on it – although that might be worth considering, too," Sherlock replies and snatches the list again, obviously planning on sitting down in his chair and disappearing into his mind palace once he's read through it.

"You can experiment all you want – but first you're tidying up this mess," John tells him, using his Captain-Watson-voice, eyes firmly set on Sherlock's and posture ram-rod straight. He might be his best friend, might even love the madman, but there are certain lines, and if Sherlock oversteps them, he'll have to live with the consequences. Namely, cleaning the flat.

And the genius only ponders arguing for about three seconds, before giving in to John's authority and grudgingly starts to pick up things from the floor, one fork at a time. In between, he turns between shooting pleading respectively hateful looks towards John, who stays firm and simply puts away the groceries – _don't make eye contact to the lamb head on the second shelf, Watson_ – and settles down on the sofa with a mug of tea, supervising his flat-mate in his work.

And yes, John takes a diabolic pleasure from watching Sherlock work his arse off cleaning up behind himself for once. After all – if he'd just been searching for this one sheet of paper, he didn't have to turn the whole flat upside down (surely, he must have know it wasn't going to be in the kitchen, bathroom or JOHN'S ROOM) and if he managed to make all this mess within the half hour John had been out shopping, he could damn well clean it up again.

The bucket list stays next to John on the coffee table, unread for the moment.

X

Sherlock wonders how long it is going to take John until he reads the bucket list.

He hasn't been completely honest with his blogger about bucket lists – true, he had deleted writing one, but deleting is nothing completely final, and if he concentrates, he can indeed get back the things he deleted (not the solar system, though, that's just plain boring). And he knows that while his 15-year-old self had rolled his eyes at the announcement in class that they were going to do such a list, he had put some though into it, later, when he was at uni already.

Granted, he had been high like a kite that day (hence the quite childish attempt at being mysterious – and hiding things from Mycroft – by writing with lemon juice), but nevertheless.

He wonders what John is going to think of him once he reads the list. Maybe he should leave the flat for a while, so John feels safe enough to pick it up and read it.

X

John doesn't forget about Sherlock's bucket list, but it sort of gets lost in his focus over the next two days, with him being busy helping Mrs. Hudson renovate her sitting room and Sherlock being obsessive with experimenting.

He's seen glimpses of the compilation of goals, though, knows that there are 14 of them – although some appear to be written in a stranger's handwriting, but he doesn't ask Sherlock if he can read them until he comes upstairs in the evening, sweaty and sticky from working in 221A all day, and sees the list on the coffee table, unfolded, beckoning.

Sherlock's nowhere to be seen, but there's a candle burning on the coffee table next to the sheet of paper and John quickly moves over to extinguish it – seems like a very Sherlock-y thing to do, leave a burning candle behind before leaving the flat.

However, before John can grumble about his careless flat-mate more, his eyes fall on the bucket list again and he furrows his brow. Instead of the previous 14 goals, there are now 20, in fading ink and it doesn't take John long to realize what the candle's been for.

Hell, he's read enough detective stories to know what you do with a candle and a seemingly blank paper.

Obviously Sherlock had written some goals with invisible ink – lemon juice.

John chuckles at the thought of an already very peculiar young Sherlock, doing his best to conceal his dreams and goals, acting all mysterious. The cheekbones had probably not yet been developed properly back then.

The doctor then proceeds to the bathroom and takes a shower, makes some tea and toast and when he finally returns to the sitting room, he feels content and relaxed. The only thing missing is Sherlock.

Well.

The bucket list is still lying there, obviously, and it's almost as if it is calling for John. _Read me._

John shortly wonders if that's too much of an invasion of privacy, but then he rolls his eyes because obviously Sherlock knows no boundaries of privacy whatsoever, and besides – he's read John's bucket list, too. And so with only the tiniest bit of remorse, John picks up the list and starts reading.

_Things I want to achieve in life_

_A list by Sherlock Holmes, age 15_

_1. Make peace with your parents_

John stops reading, a bit confused. That sounds more like some sort of self-command, rather than a goal someone would set himself. As if Sherlock's commanding someone else to do that. But then again, it's probably just that – Sherlock commanding himself to do things.

Because, honestly, John doesn't know much about Sherlock's relationship with his parents other than the occasional mention of Mummy Holmes (so at least she's still alive), but it doesn't seem like Sherlock to make an effort with people. Like, at all.

Then again, there's probably a reason behind this, and after all, it's Sherlock's personal list, so who is John to judge if the goals are out of character for Sherlock or not?

Trying to keep an open mind, he continues.

_2. Minimize your passivity_

_3. Kiss someone you think is out of your league_

_4. Work a service job_

_5. Recognize freedom when you see it_

_6. Open up a savings account_

_7. Start a relationship_

_8. End a relationship_

_9. Find a hobby that makes being alone feel lovely and empowering and something to look forward to_

**10. Learn to say 'no'**

_Piss off, Mycroft!_

Well, that explains the different, second handwriting. Obviously, Mycroft had had his own input in Sherlock's bucket list. John smiles at 15-year-old Sherlock's annoyance and continues with another suggestion obviously coming from Mycroft.

**11. Learn to say "yes"**

_12. Identify your fears and overcome them_

_13. Stop hating yourself_

**14. Take time to revisit the places that made you who you are**

Huh. So far, so good. John is intrigued by now, because a lot of these things sound just so… un-Sherlock-y and strange, just like the word choice… almost, as if he'd copied them from someone else to make his list look bigger.

John's eyes go wide when he realizes it's probably exactly that. Sherlock trying to write down things other kids his age would write. This was obviously the list he made in school, and John can almost see a young boy with unruly hair carefully waiting until the teacher turned away so he could skim through the lists of the other kids around, picking what he thought would be best.

Nothing of the above is crossed out yet, but that's not the only thing that seems odd to John. The few additions written in lemon juice have a slightly different handwriting, still Sherlock, but a bit more… mature, as if he's written them later, added them in an afterthought some time after compiling the list.

_15. Forget who you are and what your priorities are, and how you think a person should be_

_16. Think you know yourself until you meet someone better than you_

_17. Make a habit of telling people how you feel_

_18. Date someone who says 'I love you' first_

**19. Love someone **

_Which part of 'Piss off' did you not understand the first time, Mycroft?!_

John is chuckling again, but at the same time, he feels slightly sad. Because all of these goals scream Sherlock was trying to get his life right – right in the sense of _normal_ people, trying to adapt, trying to get past his usual self, trying to be someone else, someone he is not. They also scream loneliness.

_20. Be loved_

The last sentence speaks volumes. John puts down the bucket list, careful, back where he found it, and for a long time, he just sips his tea, deeply in thoughts.

Because maybe – maybe there's a chance for _them_ after all.


	2. Prologue - 2

Sherlock knows John has read the list – the doctor is nowhere to be seen (oh, yes, it's three in the morning, most likely John is asleep), but the list, despite being placed on the coffee table with obviously great care, is not _exactly_ where Sherlock left it earlier. _Nice try, John,_ he thinks and smiles to himself.

As soon as he notices, he stops, though. Thinks.

Smiling is one of the things he finds himself doing frequently lately. Not when there are people around, mind you.

And what's even more intriguing then the smiling itself is the timing of these happenings – Sherlock, in general, is content with his life. He's played the game, outplayed Moriarty (what are six months in hiding and hunting, compared to a lifetime knowing he beat the spider?!) and although he misses Jim sometimes – not that he tells John that, because that's very not-good – he has every reason to be content. An interesting case makes him smile, grin with glee. A puzzle he cannot solve instantly makes him happy.

But now – now he smiles without a puzzle, without a case. Now he smiles because of people. Well, not people. John is not _people_. But John is not a case, either.

Sherlock disregards these musings for the moment and wonders what John will think of him, now, that he's read the list. He doesn't like sounding that vulnerable – almost scoffs when he skims over the list and reads "Be loved" – but something inside him thinks it's important for John to see these parts of his life and mind. And although he doesn't know _why_ that's important at the moment, he trusts his mind. What else can he trust, after all, if not his mind?

_John_, his mind says.

Ah, sometimes, his mind is treacherous. It's still right, though.

The genius jumps up from the sofa again, and picks up his violin. John won't mind as long as he plays something nice and doesn't try to compose. In fact, John's subconscious will relax once it picks up Sherlock's presence in the flat.

That's new, too. Caring about other people. Oh, yes, Sherlock cares alright about Mrs. Hudson, and probably Lestrade – well, and John. But why he cares if John sleeps well – why he even picks up on John's sleeping habits depending on if the detective's around or not – is yet beyond his understanding, because that information is not relevant for a case, not relevant for his personal life… and yet, it's safe inside his brain, together with everything else 'John Watson'.

Over the violin playing – Telemann's 12 fantasias for solo violin, John likes that – he thinks about his bucket list, and the 20 goals he has to look into in more detail over the next few weeks. And without doubt, John will have questions and will want to discuss the list.

_Fantasia in A major_ sounds through Baker Street. John is fast asleep, the corners of his mouth curling up the tiniest bit. Sherlock smiles, too.

X

Sherlock is irritated.

Technically, that's not too unusual, but the reason is different from usual.

He is irritated, because John doesn't ask about the bucket list. At all.

No comments, no glances, no checking-if-he's-alright. John carries on with his life and obviously expects Sherlock to do the same thing although there's this giant elephant in the room.

_I know you've read the list, John,_ says the elephant. _And you know I know._

Aah, speaking of elephants. Mycroft walks in through the door and Sherlock makes a face before pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself. His brother talks about one thing or the other – insensitive at a crime scene blahblah, keep a low profile blahblah; Sherlock is already scanning the room for something to throw.

Unfortunately, John knows this and quickly picks up everything within Sherlock's reach under the disguise of cleaning up. For a moment, Sherlock is distracted by amusement that bubbles up when he sees the grimace John makes while carrying away a large chunk of very fuzzy, very mouldy cheese, but Mycroft won't stop talking and it's extremely annoying.

"Sod off, I'm busy at the moment," Sherlock interrupts, his face a blank mask as his brother quirks an eyebrow and quickly scans the room. Both Holmes brothers' eyes fall on the list that's still on the coffee table.

"Did the thought of completing your bucket list before you fall off the next building finally cross your mind?" Mycroft asks sweetly, and Sherlock knows that one of his previous comments – probably something about Mycroft's weight again, although he has deleted that already – must've hurt his brother, otherwise he wouldn't state such a thing. He still feels guilty, after all. Stupid sentiment, but what do you expect from Mycroft.

"None of your business."

"Very well then. Good luck with your plans," the older Holmes concludes and Sherlock is genuinely surprised. He has expected more struggle, orders to ignore the list and work on the one or the other boring case for Queen and Country, but when he watches his brother intently, he sees nothing but… genuine sincerity.

Huh. More sentiment? Mycroft actually thinks working on his bucket list will do him good.

Sherlock scoffs – it's all just for science! Maybe Lestrade is having some influence on his brother, inciting… sentiment and emotions. _Oh, yes, John will most likely want to know about Mycroft and the DI. _Or has Lestrade already mentioned it to him? No, otherwise John wouldn't be able to look Mycroft in the eye.

"…Sherlock?"

He looks up. John is watching him, intrigued.

"Where's Mycroft?"

"Gone, 10 minutes ago. I was asking if you were being serious? You actually want to work on the bucket list?"

Sherlock looks. John's posture is friendly, relaxed. He's not smiling, but looks intrigued and definitely interested. Curious, too.

Well, if he can't get John to talk about it, he'll just have to 'go with the flow' as they say.

"Yes. And you're helping! Get dressed, and pack everything you need for an overnight stay – we'll leave in 30 minutes!" And with that, Sherlock abruptly gets up and crosses the room, a thousand possibilities already crossing his mind.

"Where to?!" John calls after him, sounding helpless and amused at the same time.

"My parents'."

X

Two – because Sherlock doesn't pack for himself, but criticizes whatever John picks up and ends up throwing a dress shirt and some pants into the doctor's direction to pack that, too - hastily packed bags later, they're on the way to Paddington Station, and John is still torn between excitement, seeing as they've got to do something again, and reluctance because they're going to meet Sherlock's parents, of whom he knows nothing (for all he knows, they could be dead if it wasn't for the mentions of Mummy Holmes every once in a while).

But maybe he'll also get to know more about younger Sherlock, and what the story behind all the points on the bucket list is.

Either way, he is glad to escape the tense atmosphere of 221B – and the pig head that is now bearing the lamb's head company in the fridge.


	3. 1 Make peace

**1. Make peace with your parents**

A two hour train ride and twenty minute drive in a rented car later, they arrive at Holmes Manor and John is pretty sure that the aircraft hangar at the base camp in Afghanistan had been smaller.

Sherlock is already striding towards the large double door and looks back over his shoulder impatiently, calling out: "Do keep up, John!" before knocking. With one last look over the grounds, John sighs and grabs the bags before closing the distance to Sherlock, feeling a bit odd about his flat mate knocking at the door of his own home.

Obviously, the residents already know they're here, since they had to pass a gate with a security camera earlier, but it nevertheless takes almost two minutes of tense silence until they hear steps coming closer.

John watches how Sherlock straightens up and his hands move up towards the collar of his coat, but John quickly catches them midway and whispers: "Sherlock, it's just your parents – they wiped your arse when you were a kid, you don't need to act all mysterious now!"

Sherlock tries to argue back, but isn't given the chance since the door suddenly opens and they're greeted by a woman with eyes that drill themselves into John's instantly and look just like Sherlock's. Huh. That explains who Sherlock takes after.

Not lifting her gaze from John, the woman – obviously the mysterious Mummy Holmes – speaks up: "Sherlock, if it takes you 10 years after this visit until you visit _again_, I _will_ allow Mycroft to bring you out here with military force, if necessary. Doctor Watson must think you have no manners at all!"

"Oh, I know he's got no manners at all, although I do think that's not your fault," John tells her, suddenly almost sure that the woman in front of him is the complete opposite of Sherlock and Mycroft, despite looking very much like her younger son.

For a heartbeat, none of the three adults says something, and then Mummy Holmes' lips curl into a smile and she laughs, before extending her hand to shake John's. "I don't understand how you are still alone, Doctor Watson, if you're that charming to everyone," she tells him and John briefly wonders just how much the Holmes' mother exactly knows about him, but he quickly accepts the fact that it's probably _everything_ and instead smiles and gladly steps inside the manor, followed by a suspiciously quiet Sherlock.

X

Half an hour later, John is wandering the halls of Holmes Manor and wonders just how long it would take for someone to find him if he got lost in the hallways – which is very likely, considering he has no idea where he is.

He started from Sherlock's room that will be the bedroom for the two of them for the night, but when trying to find his way to the sitting room, where Sherlock had ordered him to come after putting away the bags, he definitely took a wrong corner. Or ten.

Now he walks past the umpteenth painting of a Holmes ancestor, and it's quite unsettling to see a lot of people with Sherlock-eyes staring down at him while he tries to find his way. Cassiopeia – Mummy's actual name – is waiting with tea, and John doesn't want to make her wait, but it's all very confusing.

He reads the names under the paintings and grins when he reads one absurd name after the other – what's wrong with naming children like normal human beings?! – but stops briefly when he finds an empty frame that reads "Sherlock Holmes". Obviously Sherlock had not been present to be painted, in contrast to Mycroft, who (in a younger and slightly thinner version of himself) looks down on John aristocratically.

The longer he stares at the painting, the surer John gets that there's probably some camera hidden behind it or one of those holes in the wall where you could look through the eyes of the painting to spy on people – _right, Watson, now you're getting paranoid, time to find Sherlock._

X

Of course John would get along with Mummy perfectly, Sherlock thinks and tries not to snarl over his cup of tea.

The situation has quickly escalated and now his mother tells John about how her husband died when the brothers were still very young, how he'd been abusive (Sherlock doesn't remember much, has deleted a lot of it – the bruises, the verbal abuse – and besides, Mycroft had always tried to defend him, help him. Oh yes, something else he doesn't like to think of, but can't exactly delete) and how she'd been away a lot. No doubt John will want to talk about that at some point. Dreadful.

John doesn't know Mummy'd been a _spy_, and neither Sherlock nor Cassiopeia fill him in on that – quite possibly 'my mother is a highly skilled spy that used to kill people of foreign governments' is a bit not-good – but at least now he seems to understand why Sherlock's and her relationship is frosty at best.

She left him along with Mycroft, after all. _Mycroft._ Of all people!

But of course Sherlock hasn't forgotten the more-or-less-fake reason for their visit, and he grudgingly accepts an invitation for Christmas. Not that he intends to actually go.

Cassiopeia knows that, too – she's intelligent – but Sherlock is surprised (although he doesn't show it) when he reads actual sincerity in her words and body language, too. She seems to be truly sorry for being what people in general would call an uncaring mother.

Odd. She's the second member of the family, after Mycroft, to suddenly feel overly emotional about him.

Oh, they all worried. Still worry. Constantly. But lately something is different.

Sherlock doesn't like this change one bit, mainly because he doesn't understand it. The only soothing thought is that he will understand at some point. He always does. Oh. John has asked something. Expects an answer.

Head cocked, eyes alert, trying to read Sherlock (oh, foolish John, that has never worked before. Nice try, though). Mummy is attentive, too. They wait for a decision. So either 'yes' or 'no'. The chances that they want him to agree on something is high. And if this whole bucket list thing is supposed to work out, he probably should give an affirmative.

"Yes, of course." Confidently. Strong.

He smiles to himself when John and Mummy look satisfied. So he'd been right. He still doesn't know to what he actually agreed, but that doesn't really matter.

Now – enough of the sentiment. While they're here, he might as well collect some things he's hidden over the years. John will have to make room in his bag to bring them all back. Ah yes, maybe that's the perfect opportunity to get rid of that hideous green sweater. It could… disappear.

X

"You know, you might not like it, but it's a good thing you promised your mother to visit her for Christmas. She really tries to make up for being away when you were younger," John tells Sherlock from his place on the sofa, speaking into the darkness.

It feels a bit like a slumber party, talking like that, and the thought makes John grin.

"I know. I just don't think it's necessary and I already dread the holiday season. It will be awful." Sherlock is still sulking, apparently.

"You can't know that. Just try to be happy that you still have your mother around to care about you – other people would love to spend the holidays with their parents."

"You're sad because both your parents are dead," Sherlock observes and as per usual when he's in a bad mood, he's being extremely blunt. John has almost counted on a comment like that, though.

"Yes. So stop being a prat about still having a mum that cares about you and at least try to be serious about the whole 'making peace' thing, alright? It's _your_ bucket list, after all."

The silence coming from the bed is speaking volumes and John knows that Sherlock knows he's right and just doesn't want to admit it. Finally, a huff sounds through the darkness. "Spending all that time with Mycroft will be insufferable, though."

"If it makes you feel better I can come along," John jokes. "Keep you company."

However, Sherlock's answer is serious and calm and sincere: "I would like that."

John shuts up, feels how his face heats up and turns around, tugging the blanket closer to his chest.

"It was all about the trust fund," Sherlock's voice suddenly sounds through the darkness again, and John blinks his eyes open. "The first point on the bucket list," the genius continues. "Every member of the Holmes family has a trust fund, and they get access to it once they turn 18. I knew it was the best chance to get away from all this-" John imagines 'this' means 'an enormous house, staff and a ridiculous posh life', "but that did not turn out the way I planned it."

"Wait – is that why you were looking for a flat share, back when we met? They cut you off?" John, despite still feeling a bit giddy about Sherlock's comment about him coming along for Christmas, is intrigued by the story behind the first point on the list.

"It's not 'cutting off' if you never had access in the first place, I believe. Circumstances made Mycroft think it would be better if I didn't have access to large sums of money. He talked our mother into freezing the money until I would start to 'behave'." The distaste in his voice is tangible now, but John wonders more about the mysterious 'circumstances' – of course he has a suspicion…

He says something else, though. "It's… good that you told me. Do you want to hear my advice?"

"Go on, Doctor," Sherlock replies, now clearly amused and John can almost feel the smirk.

"Mycroft and your parents only had your best interests in mind. Try not to hold it against them for longer. You are doing amazingly well on your own, with the money you get for consulting with the police. Forgive them for being – in your opinion - flawed human beings and try to genuinely enjoy the time you have with them."

For a long time, Sherlock says nothing. John just starts to worry if he said something wrong when his friend finally says: "I'll keep that in mind." And, after a short pause, "Mycroft is still an insufferable, interfering prat, though."

John just chuckles.

X

In the morning, they make their way back to London, Sherlock allows his mother to kiss him goodbye on the cheek and Cassiopeia (who seems to already know about John coming along for Christmas although neither of the men had mentioned it) bids them farewell and reminds them that she _will_ have her ways of getting Sherlock back to the manor if he decides to skip out of the plans.

Later, in the flat, John passes a pen to Sherlock, who raises an eyebrow, but obediently crosses out the first point, muttering something along the lines of 'ridiculous' and 'not a child anymore'.

A sideway glance to John, who looks strangely… proud, though, makes him bite back more harsh comments and instead, he tosses the pen aside and picks up the violin. Bach sounds through the flat and John smiles. Sherlock does, too (out of the window, though. Privately).


	4. 2 Minimize passivity

**2. Minimize your passivity**

It's one of the days where Sherlock doesn't seem to be able to stand still. At first, there is a chase across London, but this high only lasts about an hour. Then he's off to St. Barts and John follows. For all he knows, Sherlock could either be mixing the solution to cure cancer or a new virus that could kill half of Earth's population. Then he suddenly tips everything down the sink and is off again, John hurrying to follow.

Back at Baker Street, he tries to compose and John wishes he was deaf and seriously considers stabbing his own ears before he tries to flee the flat but is stopped by Sherlock who demands his presence.

And yes, _now_ John hates himself for it, but when Sherlock had him pinned against the wall not ten minutes earlier, their noses almost touching and an unsteady look in his eyes, John had had to gulp drily and had agreed to stay.

But now Sherlock has apparently decided that their books need a re-arrangement (on the floor) and that book shelves are unnecessary because he's currently looking for his hand saw so he can do whatever it is he thinks is necessary.

That's definitely not something John can tolerate, and so they start to fight and it ends with John storming out of the flat and down to the pub. All he can hope for is that 221B still stands when he comes back later in the night.

X

Surprisingly enough, the flat is more or less intact when John comes home and a suspiciously worn out Sherlock is draped boneless across the sofa. Instead of a book shelf, they now own a futuristic fretwork from which a dead raccoon is dangling.

When John reemerges from his own room in the morning, Sherlock is still in the same position, and has apparently not moved at all.

John leaves for the A&E (not before disposing of the raccoon, mind you), returns eight hours later, and Sherlock is still very much in the same position. He doesn't react when John asks if he's alright. It's nothing too odd, though, so John decides to give him another night.

However, the next morning, Sherlock is still lying there and now John feels a bit unsettled. At the very least, his friend needs to eat and drink something. And a shower would probably be good, too. He doesn't smell, but, well… his hair has seen better days.

"Right, Sherlock, don't you think you should get up at some point? Eat something? Shower?" John prods gently and this time, silver eyes focus lazily on him.

He doesn't quite like the look of them. Lestrade's last drug's bust has not been successful and John has gone through every possible hiding space he knows or can think of, but he's not fooling himself – if Sherlock actually wants to hide something – drugs – from him, he could easily do so.

"Are you alright? You seem a bit… off. You're not- you're not using, are you?" John does his best not to sound patronizing, and hopes he is successful. Sherlock seems surprised by that question (not that he shows it for longer than a split-second, but John has become quite adapt at reading the face in front of him), but replies: "No." His voice is raspy, unused for almost two days.

He rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt up, though, and displays creamy – and unmarked – skin.

Now, John is no fool – he knows that if Sherlock wants to, there are a million ways for him to hide track marks – but he has the feeling Sherlock is being honest with him.

And then, as if on a silent command, the detective gets up and disappears into the bathroom. (John later almost chokes on his tea when a very naked Sherlock emerges, grumbling something about 'no towels' and makes sure to avert his gaze - after pointedly _not staring_ at two firm arse cheeks for just a second too long).

X

"Does the whole 'lying around without moving' thing have to do something with the second point on your list?" John asks, nodding to the paper that still lies on the coffee table.

Sherlock rubs the towel over wet curls one last time before flopping down on the sofa across John – still gracefully, though. Of course John would come back to the list sooner or later.

He thinks about it for a moment, considers the consequences his answer is going to have, and then decides that the truth is the best option. Sherlock doesn't have problems with lying to people if that is beneficial in any way, but John – John is different. John deserves to know the truth, of everything (well not _everything_ everything, but the _important_ everythings at least). "I copied that from a kid called Marina Reynolds. She was worried because she had recognized her own passivity on emotional and social levels and set herself the goal to start behaving different. Of course, she didn't know that her parents were giving her Ritalin to treat what they and her doctor thought was a form of ADHD. In reality, she was just very hyped up during puberty, and the drug dimmed her emotionality and affectivity, a common side effect."

It takes John a moment to process this, and Sherlock watches with interest how his flat mate's face falls when he thinks about the mistreated girl. He doesn't ask about her, though. He asks about Sherlock.

"If you knew that was a personal thing of her, something that affected _he_r, then why did you copy it?"

"Well, in a way, it did and still does match me, don't you think?" Sherlock replies easily. He thinks back to when he met John_. __I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._

"You took it, didn't you?" Oh, John is good. Sherlock feels proud; also, annoyed. Maybe he can play dumb-

"Don't play dumb, okay?" _Or not. _

"I'm just asking you as a friend. I... I would like to know, but only if you want to tell me, of course."

Ah, John is infuriating. Which makes him so perfect. In the most non-sentimental way possible, of course.

"Yes. I thought it might help me adapt to the rest of my peers. However, it slowed me down more than it helped me to focus. I found better substitutes, drugs more powerful."

Sherlock waits for John to get angry or give him a lecture about drug abuse. It is the reasonable thing. But John simply looks sad, and not in a disappointed or pitying way, but just generally sad at the world. "I wish I could've told you that you didn't have to try and adapt to people. I bet you were just as much of a smart arse as you are now-" he chuckles, despite the sadness in his voice, "-but you must have been brilliant back then, too."

And Sherlock – Sherlock finds that these words mean something to him. They feel good. Hearing John say them feels good.

Which is completely irrational, of course, because they don't change a thing, and yet they change so much.

Sherlock allows himself to wonder how his life would've turned out if he had sat next to John in class that day. (Not that it's likely they would've attended the same class – after all, John is older, and his parents wouldn't have been able to afford Sherlock's school anyways)

He could've whispered deductions about their classmates to John, and his friend would've listened with wide eyes and – after reprimanding Sherlock for the one or the other insensitive thing he'd said – would break out in praise.

"Earth to Sherlock – you still here?"

Oh, so he's probably been too quiet again. "Oh, I was brilliant. But I think I could have used a friend."

And when John smiles, Sherlock feels the last bit of his lethargy pass away, feels energy flood his body and thoughts racing through his mind again. Most of them are 'John'.

"Never change because of what others might think or like," John says, but hands a pen to Sherlock nevertheless, and the detective swiftly crosses out the second point. He has not 'accomplished' that goal, but he's come to terms with it, has discussed it – and found a better solution. And that's what counts.

He will still be hyper at days, and lethargic, passive at others. But John will always be his friend. Surprisingly enough, that is what counts most.

* * *

_Obviously, I'm quoting the BBC series at one point; **I don't own anything**! _  
_**Thank you for your continued support!**_  
_**Love always and DFTBA,**_  
_Hanna_


	5. 3 Kiss someone

**3. Kiss someone you think is out of your league**

Logic tells John he should worry more about his flatmate or, more specifically: the feelings he harbours for his flatmate.

He knows Sherlock had been a junkie, still craves the rush of his drug of choice (cocaine, John suspects). Additionally, the genius openly admits that he is rubbish at emotions and sentiment, doesn't understand them – and apparently has no interest in pursuing them – and often enough mocks people giving in to their feelings.

So really, John _should_ have a hard time loving the madman.

But Sherlock is also brilliant, never ceases to amaze John. And he cares – the fact that he's thrown himself off a building for John (and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson) speaks volumes. He might not voice it, but he shows it, and sometimes, rarely, he opens up to John.

Hell, he wants him to come along for Christmas.

Well, that's probably just so he can escape Mycroft and his mother whenever he wants to, but still. He had sounded so sincere, and honest. Like John's presence would really mean a lot to him.

John's eyes fall on the list again, reminding him of the reason for once again dwelling on these thoughts – the third point. It sounds like a girlish thing to write down, and it's likely that Sherlock copied that, just like he did with the second point. That doesn't stop John from wondering who Sherlock will chose if he decides to complete that goal.

An unsettling, twisted feeling settles deep in the doctor's stomach and he recognizes that as jealousy. Jealousy at the thought of Sherlock marching into a club and snogging some stranger senseless. In John's mind, the stranger has no specific gender – _girlfriend? Not really my area_ – but whoever he is, he is beautiful and young. And not shot at. Or limping on rainy days.

John finishes his tea aggressively.

X

Sherlock has absolutely no intention of exchanging saliva with a stranger – or at all – and honestly, now he almost regrets having copied that point on the bucket list from Clarissa Adams, who had been in love with a three years older boy at that time. (She'd had sex with him in the backseat of his car two weeks later and nine months later given birth to twins, making her Britain's youngest mother of the decade)

Another important point in the execution of this goal is that Sherlock doesn't really know anyone who's out of his league.

Well. That's not quite correct. He knows _one_ person.

The best man he knows, the man that should hate him, should have never let him back into his life – despite the Fall being to safe him in the first place – the man Sherlock would have understood if he never forgave him.

Infuriating, tea-making, cabbie-shooting John Watson.

Sherlock hasn't been interested in someone sexually in years, and his previous encounters, in his youth, had always been functional. To pay for drugs. To satisfy his transport's demands. He can't remember the faces of anyone he had been intimate with, and it had never been important.

And even now, the thought of pursuing some sort of physical relationship seems bothersome, and a waste of time. But he figures… if he had to choose one person on this planet he'd trust enough with these matters, it would be John.

Not-gay John.

Well, not so not-gay John. Sherlock has seen the signs of attraction that John displays sometimes, when looking at him. However, John doesn't comment on them and Sherlock has the distinct feeling that addressing them would be a bit not-good. Especially when one of John's girlfriends is around.

Gah. His mouth turns into a snarl when he thinks of the numerous faceless women John has dated. They are dull, slow John down and it's not like he gets much of them besides sex. They don't interest him, not really, not if he's being honest with himself.

Sherlock doesn't want to think about John's girlfriends anymore. He still needs to figure out something for the third point on the bucket list. Because there is no way he will kiss the one person out of his league.

He could try kissing Lestrade – if nothing else to piss off Mycroft. But the DI's got a gun, and Sherlock is not sure if John is going to defend him in case Lestrade tries to shoot him for being assaulted.

X

Irene is back.

Sherlock's phone moans obscenely and John looks up startled from where he is sitting and reading the newspaper. For an irrational moment, he thinks Sherlock has made the sound, but when he realizes that Sherlock looks at the device on the coffee table with unveiled surprise, he remembers the text alert The Woman had installed on Sherlock's phone. Of course Sherlock has changed it to some sort of beep again, but something (not sentiment, because Sherlock doesn't do sentiment) had obviously induced him to keep it as her personal ringtone.

Without a word, the detective snatches his phone, swipes his thump over the screen a few times, fires off a text and then he's out of the door, without any explanation or word.

Of course John worries, and quickly texts his friend, asking if he is alright, where he's going. There's no reply.

And John stays back in 221B, alone, and fights down the worry and jealousy at the thought of Irene Adler, who is obviously back in the country, and texting Sherlock. Whom else would the moan text alert belong to, if not her? It doesn't surprise him that Sherlock knows she's not dead OR in witness protection in America, though.

All that doesn't matter now anyways, because she's back, she's texted Sherlock and he dashed, following her beckoning call. Following the call of the one woman who mattered to him. _The_ Woman.

X

"Are you still a virgin?"

"Are you still playing with the fire?"

She leans back in her seat, the light of the candle between them shining in her eyes as she focuses on Sherlock once more. "Never tried fire. I'm pretty handy with wax, though…" She winks.

"So I've heard." He takes a sip of his wine. "You will be staying for longer, I suppose."

"Yes. I missed London. So many opportunities. So many handsome men." Her eyes take him in once more, and although they both know nothing will happen between them, the sexual tension is there.

His phone vibrates, and she hears it, too. Quirks an eyebrow. "Doctor Watson is worried. You didn't tell him where you were going."

This is what Sherlock admires about Irene. She can observe things. Not quite as well as he does, but still.

"Did he tell you he loved you yet?" she continues and for the second time this evening, Sherlock is surprised. This time, he doesn't show it. He takes too long to think of an answer, though, and Irene looks partly amazed and partly surprised. "He didn't." Then, the smirk is back. "Still a virgin, then."

It's childish to feel the need to defend himself, and he knows he shouldn't listen to her taunts, but he nevertheless snaps: "Oh, I know a thing or two."

She seems surprised at his outburst, is used to her words not affecting him, but she quickly reconciles, and gives him a sad smile. "Not about love, though."

"It's a vicious motivator, motive for a good majority of crimes I investigate."

"It's also a wonderful thing," she argues, now smiling.

Sherlock smiles, too. "What do you know about love?"

"Ah, you got me there." Irene is not hurt, or distressed, her posture relaxed and confident as usual, but both, he and her, think about the four-letter word that had doomed her fate, all this time back. S-H-E-R. Maybe it was love, maybe it wasn't.

She chuckles now, and orders a new glass of wine, before leaning closer to Sherlock over the table. "Look at us, talking about love… Why don't we change to a topic we both are more interested in. Tell me what you are working on at the moment."

And Sherlock grins, and begins to tell her about the bucket list.

X

They're standing in front of 221B now, and for the whole short walk back, Irene has pestered him about the one or the other point on the bucket list. Now, she's focusing on the third point, still standing close to Sherlock since she had had her arm looped around his while they had been walking.

The touch is not as welcome as John's, but he doesn't mind it, either. He's pulled out of his musings when Irene says: "'Kiss someone out of your league'? That's an interesting thought…" She cocks her head and then grins. "Very interesting indeed."

And before Sherlock can react, she closes the short distance between them, and kisses him.

X

"You might as well ask Miss Adler in this time, so she doesn't have to _brea_k in agai- oh."

John freezes on the spot, in the doorframe, at the scene in front of him. There's Sherlock, with his hands dangling on either side of his body, and there's a very much alive Irene Adler, in a short black dress and high heels, and she's kissing the detective.

When the woman notices John, she detaches herself from Sherlock, and gives John a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Doctor Watson."

"Uh-"

He can't really respond, the scene from seconds before still on repeat in his mind, and when no reply comes from him, Irene shrugs, and reaches out, into a still extremely perplexed Sherlock's trouser pocket, where she picks out a folded piece of paper.

The small part of John's brain that is currently not shocked, jealous and confused recognizes it as the bucket list, and then he watches how Irene unfolds the paper, holds it against Sherlock's chest and – under the attentive stare of the detective - crosses out the third point with red lipstick.

"Maybe I should try and find my old bucket list… Completing yours is fun, too, though, Mr. Holmes."

And with that, she simply leaves, and leaves behind the detective and his blogger.

X

"She doesn't- I don't feel for her like that," Sherlock tells the doorframe, and only belatedly realizes that John has disappeared. Why he feels the need to say this? He suspects it has something to do with the hurt look in John's eyes.

However, it's of no use if his friend doesn't hear it! He enters the flat, and finds the blond in the kitchen, making tea.

"I don't feel anything for Irene Adler," Sherlock repeats.

"You don't have to – it's none of my business," John replies, not facing him, and reading his body language is a bit more difficult that way. "I'm sorry I, uhm, walked in on you."

"Look at me!" Sherlock commands, hating the way John is all hunched over and looking… distressed. Is it because Irene is back? Or because of the kiss? And if it is because of the kiss, why would John bother? Is it actually about the attraction he feels towards him sometimes?

John is surprised at the tone, Sherlock can see it, and turns, more out of curiosity than because of the actual command. "We talked about the bucket list and she wanted to see it. I showed it to her, and that's what lead to the scene you witnessed. She was amused and intrigued by the third point, obviously thinks I am out of her league, and therefore kissed me. It's a provocation." _Of me. And apparently of you, too._

"Right." John clears his throat, and although he doesn't exactly sound cheerful, at least his features relax a bit and loose the bitter edge. "Still, I have nothing against – I mean, if you two were… dating, I wouldn't-"

"We are definitely not 'dating'. I have no interest-" Sherlock means to say 'in her', but doesn't. Because John finishes with: "-relationships, I know. It's you and The Work."

Sherlock can't tell how John sounds, can't tell if it's happy or sad, or any nuance of these feelings in between, but he still feels like he hurt John in some way, ever since John caught Irene kissing him. Which is ridiculous, because he doesn't need to feel bad. He still does. Unsettling, very unsettling.

"You are important, too. You're part of the Work."

There. Sentiment, honesty. Things John likes.

Sherlock smiles when he sees how John looks up. Ah, so he didn't expect that. Sherlock is proud of himself for thinking of saying that.

"I'm- wow. Thanks," John replies, still surprised, but definitely smiling now. So he's happy.

Good. To be honest, this was a lot of emotional, sentimental talk this evening, and it's been exhausting for Sherlock. So he turns, shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses the bucket list back on the coffee table, before planting himself on the sofa and closing his eyes, quickly losing himself in the depths of his mind.

The red line crossing out the third point of the list is edged into his mind and while he hasn't exactly dealt with it by himself, he decides to move on.

He doesn't see the half-longing, half-happy look John sends him, or the death glare the doctor directs at the lipstick on the paper.


	6. 4 Work a service job

**4. Work a service job**

**Working a job at Angelo's. Meet me there at 7. – SH**

John, for a moment, debates with himself if he needs to have the talk about good and not-good with Sherlock again – if Angelo has done something illegal again, they definitely need to tell Lestrade; Sherlock can't always keep the Italian restaurant owner's crimes ("they are just minor crimes, John, a few break-ins, and a bit of car-jacking") a secret just so they can have free food and the comfort of a stake-out place that doesn't mind them sitting around for hours without actually ordering something.

Or has candles on the table to make it more romantic. As if there's anything remotely romantic about a triple homicide.

Well, for Sherlock, there is – and since he has influence on John's life, the doctor begins to see the appeal in murders, too. (Especially the ones where a certain flatmate gets murdered because he decided that ordering large amounts of narcotics under John's name and bank account, resulting in two very suspicious police officers having a serious talk with the unassuming doctor, is something good flatmates should come to terms with.)

Anyways, John is starving, and the shift at the hospital has worn him out enough not to want to bother with cooking something when he gets home. So he simply replies an affirmative and gets back to work. Seriously, young people nowadays – he's torn between being interested and grossed out by just how exactly that bottle neck ended up where it did. 3 hour and 26 minutes until he can surround himself with the blissfully normal insanity of Sherlock again.

X

From the way John's jaw almost hits the ground when he sees Sherlock dressed in black, tight fitting jeans, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up in a J. Crew look, a snug black waistcoat buttoned up above it and a short, black apron tied around his waist, carrying a dinner tray, Sherlock realizes that John might have misunderstood his text.

He ushers him into their usual corner and tries to ignore John's quickening pulse under his fingers. So he hasn't had a girlfriend in a while. Interesting. Not that Sherlock notices the girlfriends anyways, but since John so openly displays_… these_ kind of symptoms, he must be in need of physical release. Again, not that he is interested in that kind of activity, Sherlock tells himself. It's more of a scientific interest he feels.

Which in itself should be alarming enough. In addition to sentimental encounters with Mycroft, their mother and Irene lately, now he starts to feel interested in John's – at the moment meagre to non-existent – sex life.

To distract himself – and provide some sort of explanation to John – Sherlock advises: "I did not text 'on a job', learn to read more carefully!", before he gives John an once-over glance and announces: "I'll be back with your drink," before disappearing out of view, not actually having taken John's order. He deduced. Obviously.

Minutes later, Sherlock sets down some water and bread in front of John and the doctor's questioning face provokes him to say: "It's obvious, isn't it? I'm working on the fourth point on the bucket list."

X

John, like any other man – and quite a lot of women, to be honest – loves summer time. Because it's the time when the dresses get shorter and the neckline gets lowered.

Not that he usually degrades women to just their looks – but let's just say that he, like anyone else, appreciates that time of the year. However, no short dress, no cleavage practically thrust into his face could have prepared him for the sex-on-two-legs sight that is Sherlock Holmes dressed as a bloody waiter.

Right now, John is about as straight as the spaghetti the girl on the table next to him is eating. And he fucking couldn't care less.

In addition to looking like the Greek God of Cheekbones, Sherlock apparently is also a very quick waiter and when he comes through the tables with John's water, the doctor briefly wonders if he should order something else, just to see Sherlock walk away from him again. Or he could spill the water over Sherlock – deliciously soaked consulting waiter… Then again, Sherlock's revenge would be terrible _(Watson, remember the time he decided to grow wood and tree fungi on the frame of your bed!)_ so that's not a plan. Besides, it's not like John can act out on these feelings – or urges – he feels for Sherlock.

_You are part of the work, John._

Okay, so he might be important, but still. There's a huge difference between being important to Sherlock and admitting feelings to the self-proclaimed sociopath. Ha. Sociopath. As if.

However, there are now more important matters at hand – because as much as he likes seeing Sherlock as a waiter, the man's profession is actually consulting detective, and Lestrade is going to kill him if he can't get Sherlock back to his normal job. Goddamn bucket list. Ah, maybe that's a start.

"Thanks," John says when Sherlock puts down the water. "But about the whole bucket list point-"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, you're already working a service job of sorts. A unique service job, but still."

"You think I should stop being a waiter." Sherlock almost cocks his head, but then apparently decides that's below him and instead sits down across John, his job in the restaurant already forgotten. "Explain yourself."

John grins. "Get me my order first." Honestly, if Sherlock is actually in a situation where he has to do something so basic as get food for John without being able to complain about it (much), then who is John to let that opportunity pass? Also: that _arse._ _Very altruistic, Watson._

The glare Sherlock shoots him would be intimidating to everyone else (John is not impressed at all and simply keeps grinning), but he actually gets up and leaves for the kitchen.

John quickly snaps a photo of the retreating detective and sends it to Lestrade. He'll probably have Sherlock holding a grudge on him for weeks for that, but Lestrade will be thankful for a break and a laugh – he's on the fifth nightshift in a row, as John remembers.

**Please tell me that's not some kinky bedroom stuff you two are trying out. – GL**

_Haha, I wish._

**Sherlock's changed professions for the night. I just benefit from being able to command him around. – JW**

After a few seconds, he adds a half-hearted:

**And we're not a couple.**

**Sure. Well, have fun. Mycroft is grinning from one ear to the other – he'll never let Sherlock down on that. – GL  
**

Wait what?

**What are you doing with Mycroft? – JW**

But there's no reply, and Sherlock comes back from the kitchen, balancing a plate with John's order on his tray, so John quickly pockets his phone, already forgetting about the last text message.

X

"Excuse me, but we would like to order-" A man a few tables down calls out, with an annoyed stare at Sherlock's back. The detective has re-claimed his seat across John.

"And my brother wants to lose 5 pounds, but we can't always get what we want. I'm busy!" Sherlock tells him off-handedly, earning a disbelieving stare from the customers, but of course he ignores it. Instead, he tries to sneak some pasta from John, who almost stabs him with his fork. There are boundaries, even when it comes to love. Pasta being one of them.

Sherlock always claims he's not hungry and ends up eating half of John's portions.

He's working in a bloody restaurant now; he could just go and grab something. John is going to defend his meal with everything he's got.

The detective seems to realize that, too, and stops his attempts, instead steepling his fingers under his chin. "Working a service job is really annoying."

John snorts around a mouthful of pasta – he's kind of wolfing down the food now, but he doesn't really trust Sherlock – and manages: "You've been at it what – three hours?"

"Four hours and 23 minutes," Sherlock replies, sounding offended. "Now, do you want to know the story behind that point or not." He doesn't wait for John to answer. "Of course you do."

"Git."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Tell me."

Sherlock quirks one eyebrow, but when John meets his eyes, showing good-natured humour and interest, he gives in. Who is he to rebuff a willing audience, after all? He's like a twisted Tinkerbell sometimes, living off the amazement John feels when he once again allows him a glimpse into the mind of The Great Sherlock Holmes.

"When I was fourteen, the waiter at the restaurant in town shot four guests. Later he claimed they had aggravated him so much over the past years that he saw no other way but to kill them. That was when I began to wonder just how much emotional stress people working in service jobs have to endure and how much of it they can endure before they snap."

"And now you're going to work as a waiter until you snap and kill someone?" John asked. "Knowing you, you're two steps away from doing so already. And I don't think Lestrade would approve of that."

"He wouldn't be able to prove I did it," Sherlock challenges, looking amused and notices how John's lip twitch as he tries to hold back a grin and tries to stay serious.

"You're not murdering innocent customers just to find out if you could get away with it – and besides: I'd know about it, I'd be a witness."

"First of all – I could _definitely_ get away with it. And who says I'm going to let you live?"

Now John grins, and while it's amused more than anything else, it's also the grin of a predator. Someone who knows when he is stronger, who knows he can take on the danger, who knows he is dangerous. "I'd like to see you try."

And yes, maybe discussing a possible murder spree and being murdered by your genius, crazy flat-mate slash best friend slash guy you're (in a not-gay way) in love with _(okay maybe that is gay after all)_ in a restaurant is considered 'weird' – or downright 'mental' - by other people, but John is just really happy and content.

This is what he lives for – utterly perfect madness – and he wouldn't want to change that for anything in the world.

Ah crap- over his sentimental thoughts, Sherlock has managed three forks full of pasta and he's munching on them as discreetly as possible, trying not to catch John's attention. As if.

Sighing, John pushes his plate over the table and Sherlock accepts it without as much as a thanks. But John doesn't mind, and when he and Sherlock walk back to Baker Street later (with all customers in the restaurant still alive and Angelo showing the slightest bit of relief as Sherlock announced he wouldn't return 'to work' again) the nagging feeling in John's stomach ever since the Irene Adler encounter a few days earlier is gone.

They're John and Sherlock again, and back at the flat, Sherlock swiftly draws a black line through the fourth point, smudging the red lipstick over the third point the slightest bit.

* * *

_Hope you're still enjoying this, thank you for your reviews and **have a lovely weekend!**_  
_Peace and a long life,_  
_Hanna_


	7. 5 Freedom and 6 Savings

**5. Recognize freedom when you see it  
and  
6. Open up a savings account**

"What do you think is freedom, John?" Sherlock asks, blinking lazily into the afternoon sun after not having moved from the sofa all day. He's wearing his dressing gown, but it's not fastened and thus, it falls open over his chest, revealing a thin line of pale skin between rich, dark blue.

It's the reason for John to sit with his legs crossed for over an hour now.

And he really needs something to drink, but getting up is not exactly an option right now. Or ever, if Sherlock keeps stretching like a cat.

Oh crap. Sherlock has asked him something.

Silver eyes are now watching John suspiciously and while their attentive stare sends goosebumps down his back, he tries his best to look unsuspicious. And not aroused. At his flat-mate. Who is not interested in relationships.

_You are part of The Work, John._

Yes, thank you brain. Just the thing one needs to remember when trying not to get their hopes up. Or longing to snog their unassuming flat-mate.

Okay, so what did Sherlock ask? Something about freedom… - isn't that a bit… "That's quite a philosophical question, coming from you," John states. Now that he focuses on it – and wills as much blood as he can back to his brain – he realizes that that's actually true. It_ is_ a weird question for Sherlock.

"It's not as philosophical as you think," the detective corrects him. "It is a simple question, and I expect a concrete answer."

"Jeez, demanding today, are we?" John lifts his hand in surrender – just one, because the other needs to hold a conveniently placed book in place – and adds: "Okay, give me a moment to think about it."

"Hurry," Sherlock drawls, and John rolls his eye at him. He doesn't see it, of course, seeing as he's still kind-of-sunbathing with closed eyes. Not that Sherlock does trivial, dull things like sunbathing. No, he just happens to go to his mind palace on the sofa, with his eyes closed, in the prime sunspot. And he certainly didn't angle to sofa slightly to the left for that.

"Okay, so, uhm… freedom for me is to… to be able to go and do what I want. It's a common thing to say, I know," John quickly adds when Sherlock scoffs, "but when you were being shot, when you almost died, when you get a second chance at life, you start to value that. I'm free to live again. Sounds cheesy, but it's the truth," he finishes.

"And with your second life, you chose to follow me to an empty school building and proceeded to shoot a cabbie through a window." Sherlock still has his eyes closed, but John sees the small, amused smirk on his friend's face.

"You know, just this morning when I found our whole supply of teabags soaking in the bathtub, I seriously questioned myself about that. Maybe I should have just let you chose a pill."

It's easy banter between them, and both of them know that John would never have let any harm come to Sherlock. Not in a hundred years. Not when he could prevent it.

Sherlock replies just as easily. "You still would have found the teabags in the bathtub, because I'd chosen the right pill."

John snorts. "Of course." After a second, he adds: "Anyways, what brought on that question about freedom?"

"The bucket list, of course."

Of course.

"Oh, right. So… what's freedom for you, then? Have you ever thought about it?"

X

"For me, freedom was always control over my mind. I told you how it feels like to be me – to have this rocket inside your head, trapped on the launchpad, tearing itself apart. Other people's brains are not ignited, but mine is, and ever since I was very young, it has been burning like a supernova – don't look at me like that, I do know the one or the other thing about stars and planets. So, being able to control it is freedom for me. Always has been. Cocaine helps with that."

John takes a deep breath. "Well, it's not uncommon that people use drugs to feel free. You know, in a recreational sense – to get relief from stress, to feel better. To shut down."

"I'm not shutting down when I take something. I'm able to put things in order, see everything very clear. It's like the mud in dirty water suddenly sinks to the ground and leaves it crystal clear," Sherlock explains, and he obviously takes his time, tries his best to make John understand. And obviously, if he bothers with it that much, John will listen very closely. Not that he doesn't do that anyways. But having Sherlock opening up is rare, yet appreciated. It makes John also feel special, with being the one Sherlock tells these kinds of things.

"Mmh. Why did you stop then?" John asks, and quickly adds: "It's good, really, because drugs are bad and all that, but how did you manage to kick the habit?"

"I didn't." Sherlock shrugs, as if it's something he has to live with. Oh, yes – it is. Of course John knows that addicts never quite stop feeling the drag towards their drug of choice, but in the time John has lived with Sherlock now – over 4 years, minus the six month after- well, almost 4 years, he had always restrained from shooting up again. There had been danger nights, and days, yes, but in the end, Sherlock had always stopped himself.

"I want to, every day. Part of my brain is constantly reminding me of how I could work. Do you know how insane it can get inside my head?!" Sherlock is really worked up by now, and John fights the urge to pull him back down when he starts pacing the flat. "There's noise, constantly, and I see everything. I can't _unsee_ things, even if I want to, and there's so much disturbing input at crime scenes – the clues are hidden beneath them, and I just need to find them. It would be so much easier to just clear away the mud sometimes…"

And suddenly, John realizes what's keeping Sherlock from simply shooting up all the time. It's not what Mummy Holmes, or Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson might think of him. Not even what Lestrade – who won't allow him on crime scenes anymore if he's drugged – thinks. Hell, not even what he, John, thinks, as much as he'd like that. It's only Sherlock himself.

Sherlock, who makes a puzzle out of his addiction. Who fuels his own mind by making it harder to get to the clues, to draw the connections. Instead of cheating, shooting up and instantly seeing the answers, he chooses to _work_ his way through to them.

An appreciative look from Sherlock – who sees what John has realized, reads it in his face, in his posture – confirms his track of thoughts.

"Just so you know – I think it's amazing that you can control yourself like that. And you are brilliant, in the way you see things, and deduce," John tells him, smiling warmly and Sherlock doesn't smile back, but stops his pacing and lies down on the sofa again, curly head hanging over the edge and into John's direction.

X

Suddenly, there are fingers at his temples, a soft, but secure touch. Hands that know where to apply pressure, know what feels good and what doesn't, and he's surprised, but finds that the touch is not unwelcome.

John says nothing, just, after waiting a moment – for Sherlock to tell him off, to move away, to say something – begins to massage. The temples, towards the middle of the detective's forehead, up to the beginning of the hairline, and back to the temples again.

Sherlock has half-expected John to be angry at him, for being addicted to drugs, for telling him that he doesn't regret taking them. Instead, John offers comfort through touch – not that Sherlock needs to be comforted.

(It does feel nice, though. Very nice indeed.)

He finds himself relaxing into the touch, something that _touch_ usually doesn't do for him.

"I opened up a savings account when Lestrade asked for my help the first time. It was shortly after we met- " in the gutter, overdosed, a tired, exhausted DI in training, on his first evening off work in weeks and a young man having miscalculated his dose, "and he made it clear that I couldn't consult with the police while I was on drugs. So instead, I opened up a savings account and put the money I would've used to buy cocaine in there, as well as the money I earned from working with the police. Mycroft, after watching me for a while, offered-" he scoffs at the word, "to give me access to my trust fund, but I declined."

Sherlock often tells himself it had nothing to do with pride, nothing to do with the fact that he could care for himself, had managed to do so for years without any money at hand (_yes, by going down on Ben when you needed the cocaine so badly your hands were shaking, _his mind adds) and that he didn't need the trust fund when he started consulting. But in reality, it's nothing but pride that keeps him from accepting what's rightfully his.

John's fingers stop briefly in their motion, as if he can feel the angry thoughts running through Sherlock's mind, but then he resumes his motions and all Sherlock can do is not sigh in complacency.

"So it's not true what Sergeant Donovan says – you do get paid for your work," John half-asks, half-states. If he's hurt by not knowing where exactly Sherlock's money comes from, he doesn't show it.

"She doesn't know everything that's going on between Lestrade and me, no."

"But you don't take money from the people that come to us privately."

"No. My mother transfers money every time I finish a case – Mycroft obviously tells her, because I certainly don't. I think she considers this 'care'." He doesn't like it, not one bit, but even he has to admit it is quite convenient. And it's for the work he's doing, so it's some sort of payment rather than… allowance. Not that he wants it – if he had his way, he would live contently with just solving the puzzles, but unfortunately trivial things like the rent and food need to be taken care of.

John wisely says nothing about all that, knowing that this is a sensitive topic for Sherlock, and the detective finds himself thankful for the silence. It's only after some more massaging that John says: "You can cross that off your list then!"

Sherlock contemplates that, and stretches before extending a hand, eyes still closed. "Pen."

His flat-mate mutters something unintelligible, and Sherlock's lips curl into a small grin, and then something lengthy is shoved into his hand and he reaches over his head until he feels the paper between his fingers.

A thick line is quickly drawn through the sixth point and after a moment, John clears his throat and Sherlock hears him getting up. "I'm making tea – do you want some, too?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, and John simply says: "I'll take that as a yes," before moving to the kitchen. The detective can hear the smile in his words.

And then it hits him.

With John around, he can be who he really is, and who he wants to be. He can tell John that he was a drug addict, and he can tell John that he's still craving for the substances. He can not talk for days and John will never be angry or annoyed with him. Worried, maybe, but never angry. He can say not-good things, and John just tells him and is just a bit angry. He can be as insensitive and inconsiderate at a crime scene as he wants to, and John simply marvels at his deductions. He can keep body parts in the fridge (and the microwave, the oven, the top shelf in the cupboard, all over the living room and in a secured, air-sealed container under John's bed – oh, right, he should probably tell John about that, because not telling is not-good) and experiments all over the kitchen table. He can shoot the walls, compose at three in the morning, and although John does get angry at that, he never really gets _angry_.

And he can jump off a building for John, and disappear, and come back, and John is still here with him.

_With John, Sherlock can be free to be himself._

Drawing a line through the fifth point, too, makes Sherlock smile, and he doesn't hide it. Because he can. Because he's free to do so. With John around.


	8. 7 Start and 8 End

**7. Start a relationship  
and  
****8. End a relationship**

Lately, Sherlock wonders if the prolonged exposure to very-human, very-intriguing John Watson that comes with living with the man, has caused himself to change.

How else is he supposed to explain why he feels the need to tell John about his life? He's never considered doing that before. Granted, Lestrade knows bits, since he was the one who met Sherlock during the height of his drug abuse, and then there's Mycroft who Sherlock had had the misfortune of growing up with. So, Mycroft obviously knows about younger Sherlock.

But John – John shot the cabbie for Sherlock with only knowing him for a bit more than a day. He knew nothing about Sherlock other than that he kept a riding crop at the morgue, was a bit messy and had an 'archenemy' that had already kidnapped him. And yet, he shot the cabbie to save Sherlock's life.

So much for trust issues.

All in all, there shouldn't be this interest in making John understand his life better. In wanting John to know about him. But John always insists that talking about things that bothered people could make them feel better, so in conclusion it is only right for Sherlock to talk to John about his past. Except that it doesn't _bother_ him.

And with every tid-bit of information he gives out, he half-expects John to leave.

He never does.

And this loyalty, the fact that John is always there when Sherlock needs him – and often when he thinks he doesn't need him – and because he genuinely _likes_ John, and because John is not dull or stupid – all these reasons make John perfect for what needs to be done next, the one person Sherlock can even _imagine _to do with what comes next.

Sherlock has done his research, has questioned John. Now is the time. The time to work on the next point of the bucket list.

John is sitting in his chair next to the sofa, reading the newspaper. Now is as good as any other time, Sherlock supposes.

"I would like for us to be in a romantic relationship," he says, and, wondering if it needs adding, continues: "Together."

X

As the words leave Sherlock's mouth, John's heart almost gives out, all the while his mind races through the last few days. _Everything_ makes sense now. All the goddamn questions.

"_John, how long does the average relationship that doesn't end in marriage usually last?"_

"_John, what – aside from the love variable – do people usually look for in a relationship?"_

"_John, do men in general prefer to ask out or be asked out?"_

He has not counted on _that,_ though. Not counted on Sherlock simply blurting out a question like that, in the middle of the afternoon, between dissecting a pig's brain and complaining about John's new sweater – which is not hideous at all, by the way. It's sand coloured. What's wrong with sand?!

Well, maybe feeling it beneath you while you bleed out. But other than that-

Right. Back on track. Sherlock – Sherlock wants to be in a bloody relationship with him!

John has never been one for hyperventilating, not even when a seemingly completely unfazed Sherlock had stared at him from below on the street, six month after he had _buried_ him. But now seems like a good time to start. The hyperventilation thing, mind you. Not the burying – he's never doing that again.

"According to protocol, this is where you either say yes or no," Sherlock prods, quirking an eyebrow and John only now realizes that he has stared unbelievingly at the detective for a good while now, without actually verbally reacting.

"I- uh…" Okay, this is a bit complicated. "Why… how- where did that come from, all of the sudden?"

_Aah, good, Watson. Just scare him off with being dumb._

_You could've had it all, right then and there on the spot. You could've said yes, and maybe you could've started snogging right away and then… who knows… - but no. Of course you have to question it, you can't just shut your mouth for once and-_

John tries to will his own angry accusations down – more or less successful, and tries to tell himself that he did the right thing. Questioning Sherlock, rather than just accepting things.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

But that's how it works with the right things – you don't always have to like them. You can't always like them. They're nevertheless right, though.

"I've been told repeatedly that relationships are not something I am too experienced in, and I wish to change that. It is also part of the bucket list, so the opportunity is perfect to pursue one."

"Right, the list." John has almost forgotten about it, but now he remembers the point clearly. '7. Start a relationship.'

He also remembers what follows after that point. '8. End a relationship.' Suddenly, the scales fall from his eyes. Sherlock is still just working on that bloody list and satisfying his scientific interest in an area he is – as he has admitted himself – not experienced in. It's not about a sudden change in his feelings, or even a natural curiosity. He's just combining the interesting with the useful. Gaining experience with crossing two points of his list.

However, John fails to be angry. He just can't bring himself to feel that. "So this would all be some sort of… social experiment to you? You know I'm not going to say yes to that."

Sherlock looks like a deer caught in the headlights. It lasts only a second, but it's obvious he didn't count on John to see, thought that his act was flawless. But then, he just accepts the new understanding, and instead of lying, he elaborates: "If you want to put it that way, yes. These two points were something every single student – boys and girls – wrote down in class the day we had to compile the list, and it only was natural to do the same. I've always wondered why exactly so many people desire that goal in life."

Because you can't chose with whom you fall in love. Because you don't want to be alone. Because the other person is perfect, and you want to be with them forever.

John says neither of these things, though. He simply tries to stay calm, hide his disappointment, and breathe. In, and out. In, and out.

Sherlock looks insecure now. He has obviously realized that something he said was not-good, and John has to give him credit for actually making a worried face. Sherlock doesn't like that he obviously has upset him.

He won't understand it by himself, though, and so John pulls himself together, sits down on the sofa again and gestures for his flat-mate to do the same.

"Look, Sherlock, sit down, will you?"

At first, it looks like the detective doesn't want to listen, is still hurt about John declining his… offer, but John keeps his gaze steady, and warm, and finally, he gives in and dramatically flops down on the sofa.

"I'm… I'm flattered by your, uhm, offer. Really. But you're doing this for the wrong reasons. I mean, it's nice to know that you trust me enough to want to do… this sort of thing with me, but a relationship – to me – is serious."

Sherlock scoffs, and malice colours his voice when he says: "If you consider a weekend-shag as a serious relationship…"

"Don't give me that now-" John is a bit annoyed, but he realizes this is just Sherlock trying to rebuild the façade he let slip temporarily before. "What I'm trying to say is that I want a relationship – even if it's just a weekend-shag – to matter. That the person I'm with is into that because of the right reasons, and not because it's some sort of social experiment."

"But I do value your opinion very high and I enjoy your presence. I told you – you're my only friend. That surely has to count for something?" Sherlock now prods, already more intrigued than annoyed and John secretly is glad that the detective's mood turns that way – he can't stand it when Sherlock is annoyed with him.

"Of course it 'counts' for something, if you want to put it that way. But I can say basically the same thing about Greg, and you don't see me asking him out, do you?"

"I highly advise you not to make an advance with Lestrade, the consequences would be most inconvenient for both of us," Sherlock replies, very seriously, and John has the feeling that he's missing out on something important here. But Sherlock is missing his point entirely, and that's of more importance right now.

"That's not my point."

"I understand your point, although I thought that what we share is different from what you share with Lestrade."

Oh, you git. You know just what to say, don't you?

John is torn between being amazed, and touched, and pleased by that comment, and trying to tell himself that this is just Sherlock asking for better understanding. He has analyzed their relationship and wants to confirm his hypothesis. Nothing else.

It's still so good to know that he values what they have higher than what John has with others.

He sighs. "It is. But it's not relationship material. It's not enough for a relationship, you know?"

Going by Sherlock's look – not confused, God beware if someone saw Sherlock confused. No, intrigued, maybe. Because Sherlock doesn't do confused. Anyway, going by Sherlock's look, he _doesn't_ know, so John has to try and make it clearer.

"Look – we are friends, yes. Best friends. But do you love me? Do you think that the feelings you have are love?"

Ha, get the bloody newspapers – if that isn't the single most gay talk John has had in his life (with his presumably asexual, self-proclaimed-sociopathic flat-mate slash best friend), then he doesn't know either.

And talking about love – it's hard enough not to just give in to Sherlock's proposal. To just play pretend in a relationship that's simply for scientific purpose, just because it might give John a taste on how it could be, being together with the man he admires, cares for and… yes. Probably loves.

That is why the answer – delivered swiftly and securely – almost crushes him. "No."

_Okay, don't let it show. He can read you like an open book, but he _cannot _read this in you. Not now. Not ever, possibly. You could lose it all._ "See?" _Ha. That almost sounded normal._ "Now, I'm not saying that this is the case in all relationships, but in most relationships, there is some form of physical attraction, too. The wish to be close to each other, to… I don't know, hold hands, kiss, cuddle – whatever. Can you imagine doing those things with someone?"

This time around, it's easier to deal with the instant "No" coming from Sherlock. That doesn't mean it doesn't leave a bad taste in John's mouth.

"So you say I shouldn't start a relationship with someone if I don't feel these things for them?" Sherlock sums up, sounding thoughtful.

"Yes. I mean, what you do in the end is your cup of tea, but this is the reason why _I_ won't agree to this. You should either want to be in a relationship and do it, or not at all. Doing this to someone – including yourself – for science, if you don't even want to, feels wrong to me. And it would be wrong to do this to yourself. If you were in a relationship and happened to have sex without actually wanting it, that's rape. You'd be raped. That's not worth it."

For a moment, Sherlock considers this, and then he gives John a small, appreciative smile. "I'll be thinking about this now. You might want to make some tea."

And John, being who he is, smiles back, tries not to feel heartbroken like a goddamn 16-year-old and gets up to do exactly that. Make tea.

X

Two hours later, Sherlock suddenly gets up, crosses the room and draws two swift lines through points 7 and 8.

"I agree with you on this. You are the more experienced party and your opinion and experience rank higher than mine," he declares when John looks up and quirks an eyebrow.

It's a bit confusing that John, despite having been right and being acknowledged by Sherlock, still doesn't look exactly happy. More like… defeated.

But then again, Sherlock could also be wrong. He's never been too good with recognizing the more subtle emotions of the people around him.

Anyways, they can move onwards to the next points now – really, he should be excited about that. The whole list has turned out to be more trouble than he'd expected, and moving on should be welcome. Still… he can't get John's questions out of his mind, and it's utterly perturbing.

_The wish to be close to each other. Holding hands, kissing, cuddling - can you imagine doing those things with someone?_

_Do you think that the feelings you have are love?_

Well, how would he know?

* * *

_**Thanks for your continued support!** Feel free to check out my tumblr (**hanna-notmontana**) if you want to :)_  
_All my love, _  
_Hanna_


	9. 9 Find a hobby

**9. Find a hobby that makes being alone feel lovely and empowering and something to look forward to**

"You know, you could've just picked up playing football or rugby. Or fencing, if the other stuff's not posh enough for you," John tells Sherlock as they're talking about the next point of the bucket list.

"John, read carefully. It's about a hobby when being alone – as far as my knowledge extends, these are all activities one has to partake in with a team. Or at least one other person."

"Well, then… playing an instrument – you do play the violin!"

"I do, but I've mastered it when I was 18. And we don't have room for a piano – it would be impractical anyways, because I can't walk around while playing anyways. Besides, playing the violin is nothing that makes being alone special – I can play and compose just as well when there are people around-"

"Yes, at bloody three in the morning," John mumbles. _Actually,_ Sherlock hasn't done that in a while – which is strange enough; maybe he's up to something. John will have to check that.

"What about experimenting then?" John tries, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"While it is interesting and an enjoyable way to spend my time, it's too much work-related. No John – I need to find a hobby!" And that brings them back to where the whole conversation started from.

Sherlock is not willing to cross off that point without actually completing it. ("We're already getting sloppy on some of the points – remember Irene Adler-" John does _not want to _remember Irene Adler or her meddling with the third point, thank you very much – "or points seven and eight. No, I have to find a hobby!" And by 'I', he obviously means 'we'. As if John has time for a hobby. He's got a hobby – it's called Sherlock.)

Sherlock had completed that point once, actually. Filled the time when he was alone in a drug-induced haze.

John's stomach tightens when he thinks back how longing Sherlock had sounded when talking about that time. Oh, he does realize that this is not an option anymore, doesn't want it to be an option, but John still hates that Sherlock did this to himself, hates that so much of Sherlock's past can be narrowed down to drugs.

However, he's pulled out of these thoughts when Sherlock's head suddenly shoots up and he gets up and actually starts shoving John towards the stairs up to his room. "John, get dressed and ready to leave! We're going out!"

John doesn't even question these kind of statements anymore, but he does wonder what's wrong with his sweater and jeans, so he carefully asks: "And where are we going?"

Sherlock's grin is excited. "We're going clubbing."

X

John, not for the first time that evening, wonders if he actually is that old, but so far he hasn't recognized a single song they play in the club and the current one, mainly consisting of 'boom's and 'pow's and 'voom's sounds strange to him, too.

Sherlock, however, looks weirdly in place, with the stroboscope light painting purple and green shadows on his pale face, complimenting the purple shirt he's wearing.

The very tight purple shirt he's wearing.

The one that has been attracting the attention of four women and two men so far – and now Irene Adler.

John has not been convinced of this entire plan right from the start – clubbing, no matter how much Sherlock argues, is _not_ a hobby. ("But John – when I was younger I used to sit in crowded places and just watch people. Alone. And it made me feel good because I could deduce a lot about them. So that is a hobby, and I intend to pick it up again.") Plus, Sherlock has obviously chosen a place with the highest criminal rate in all of London and John seriously regrets not bringing his gun. Or a SWAT squad.

Ah yes, and now there's Irene. Again. If John wasn't so obsessed by Sherlock himself, he would seriously question the obsession the Dominatrix has with the detective, and she seems to pop up wherever they go.

At least she's dressed half-way decent.

Wait what? Irene, with a last smirk to John, has actually managed Sherlock to go and dance and just so John doesn't have to watch that, he puts his Three-Continents-Watson powers to good use and chats up the next half-way decent-looking girl at the bar.

For all he knows, she could be a spy or a murderer, but a particular sarcastic thought of 'if you're dead, you can be sure of Sherlock's attention' wipes away all his worries.

X

He notices the first signs of something meddling with his mind two minutes and twenty-seven seconds after John has gone to bed.

In retrospect, there probably have been signs before, like the tingling sensation he got when he closed his hand around John's wrist not twenty minutes ago, when he'd dragged him out of the night club (John had been dancing with a woman known for killing the men she spent the night with, so he should have been thankful, but Sherlock suspects he was rather... mesmerized by the E-Cup the Russian had been thrusting into his face) right after Irene had left with one last, sly comment.

Yes, the tingling was most likely from the drug and not from the firm touch John gave him while trying to pry his wrist free.

The golden shimmer that had surrounded John under each street lamp they passed was most likely due to the unknown substance, too, because in the brief lucid moment Sherlock has, he realizes that most people look sickly pale under streetlamps, and not golden and wondrous.

And thinking back to how John looked, walking next to Sherlock through nightly London, brings Sherlock back to the most obvious effect of the drug Irene must've slipped him somehow.

There's an awful shortage of blood in his brain, and a markedly large amount of blood in regions where there's usually not. Namely, his cock.

Irene most likely gave him some sort of aphrodisiac – she's still under the illusion that John wants to move their relationship to a new level, obviously, which Sherlock knows is _not true_ because he _tried_ and John didn't _want to_ because John wants to be _loved_ and _love_ and that's not _working_ and-

With a determined grunt (because that's all he's capable of at the moment, disgracing as it is) Sherlock starts staggering towards the bathroom. A shower seems like a very good idea.

X

Sherlock's hair actually gets really heavy when it's wet. The curls hang down, only their tips still sticking up a bit, but other than that, it's a dark mass of soaking-wet hair, and it reaches almost into the detective's eyes.

Also, a soaking consulting detective is probably even more lethal than a normal one – he's much more slippery and agile, it seems. And with the purple shirt clinging to his wet chest, revealing creamy skin and – ABORT ABORT, A NIPPLE – everyone would have a hard time concentrating on the task at hand.

Which is, making sure Sherlock is not drowning. In the shower of 221B. At three in the morning.

And that is why John is currently in the shower with Sherlock. This is why he knows how wet Sherlock hair feels. How soaked detective moves.

Well, soaked, _drugged_ detective.

"She did it again, Jaaawn. She always does this- the- the WOMAN, JAWN. _THE_ WOMAN!"

Instead of replying to the rants of the soaked, drugged, flailing detective that woke John up in the first place after having fallen asleep just twenty minutes ago (admittedly, the rants were not so much responsible for the waking up as was the noise of the shower and Sherlock slipping and landing on his arse, followed by a rather untypical howl), the doctor avoids a surprisingly accurate left hook and, out of reflex, manages to catch Sherlock's arms mid air, turning him around and pinning his arms to his back, while his torso is pressed into the tiles of the shower wall.

Which brings them both into a position that is downright sexy.

Well, _would be_ downright sexy if Sherlock wasn't drugged, half-dressed and soaking and John would wear something else (or just nothing) instead of just boxers and a ratty t-shirt.

Alright, no time to dwell on these thoughts.

John finally manages to turn off the shower, which at least helps with the immediate danger of drowning. However, now Sherlock is a shivering mass of detective and John's complete right side is soaked, too.

"John, I'm completely drenched," Sherlock suddenly states, dead serious, and tries to look over his shoulder at John. When he can't because John is still holding his hands, he whimpers – fucking whimpers – and his shoulders sag down.

"No shit, Sherlock?" John doesn't bite it back, and carefully releases his friend's arms. Sherlock immediately turns and looks so miserable that John's heart almost breaks.

Almost. Because as soon as Sherlock sees the dry, left side of John's t-shirt, he lowers his head and wipes his face dry, not caring about flailing John.

"Ah, get off, you bugger! Use the towel, for God's sake-" John swears and ignores Sherlock's whining (I wonder if that's how he sounds when he's- right. Wrong place, wrong time, Watson.)

With some man-handling from John's side and dangling limps and shivering from Sherlock's, they manage to step out of the shower and towards the towels. The fresh air seems to knock some sense into Sherlock and although John really wouldn't object at any other time, the sudden decision to strip is a bit shocking.

Completely unashamed, Sherlock is standing naked now, a purple-black pile (did he match his underwear with his shirt?!) of soaked clothes on the ground and expectant eyes directed at John.

And John – John does his best to look into Sherlock's eyes and holds out a towel.

"A cold shower apparently does not counteract the erection I have from the aphrodisiac," Sherlock then proceeds to observe, with an interested look down himself and John asks himself what he's done wrong in his life to be tested like this. From the looks of it, he must have been a dictator of sorts. Or the Whore of Babylon.

Life is not fair.

X

John watches Sherlock for another moment. He's peaceful now, sprawled over his bed like a starfish, and the light from outside is painting a surrealistic pattern on his bare arm. He looks young, beautiful and relaxed – and John realizes that he can look at his feelings from any angle he wants to, it all comes down to one thing. He's madly in love with his best friend.

John goes to bed (not before stopping by the list and drawing a firm line through the ninth point - Sherlock will never have hobbies in the sense of "normal, recreational", because he pours his everything in everything he does and this is one of the things John admires a lot about him and he will explain that to him tomorrow), with the firm intention of having a serious talk with Irene Adler as soon as possible. She can't be allowed to drug Sherlock one more time.

X

He manages to avoid John all morning – not out of shame, of course, but because of... other reasons he can't be bothered to name right now – but is cornered in the afternoon.

He can still remember everything from the night – quite obviously whatever Irene gave him was not supposed to wipe his memory, and he tries to explain to John in swift words that he started noticing the effects of the drug on his body soon after they had returned to the flat and had tried to get it out of his system.

The fact that he had ended up in the shower, still dressed in his trousers and with his shirt unbuttoned, but still tugged in is to be put down to the influence of the substance Irene had slipped into his drink. So is the giant bruise on his left arse cheek.

Bruising and drugs – the two constants in his life with Irene Adler.

Oddly enough, also the two things closest connected to his past.

However, before he or John get the chance to discuss the night-time activities further, the door opens and Lestrade walks in.

Oh great. There's at least two hairs from Mycroft on the collar of his shirt – and is that Mycroft's shower gel?

Well, the day could apparently not get worse.

Lestrade immediately starts blabbing about a case (boring, the teacher did it. Obvious!) and Sherlock moves to the kitchen table to stare into his microscope. Everything is better than having to read his brother's morning activities on the DI's appearance.

Oh, lucky John. With his unassuming mind and his not-seeing eyes.

He wonders how long Lestrade is going to stay – he will be able to talk to John again after the DI leaves, and that is way more interesting than staring at samples he's already stared at all morning – but John seems to be making tea now. Urgh, this afternoon is turning out incredibly dull and awful. There should be a law of some sorts against... 'companionship before 6 pm', or something.

Just when he's about throw a vial containing an interesting mix of one-week-old milk that has acquired a rather fuzzy quality on the floor to make the DI leave and John's attention return to him, his phone beeps.

Mycroft.

Okay, so now it is _definitely_ the worst day in... at least two days. And that is exactly why the vial with the cuddly milk, along with two samples of acid and a rotten foot make their way to the kitchen floor rapidly.

Now John is angry. And Lestrade is annoyed too.

And because that annoys Sherlock to no end, and he just wants his peace (actually, he wants disturbance, but only if it's murders or on his own condition) he grabs his coat, calls out: "John, Lestrade is shagging my brother – the last time this morning, and going by the state of his trousers around the knees, I assume it was in Mycroft's office, on the rug next to the window."

Grinning triumphantly to himself, he bangs the door to 221B shut, leaving behind a beet-root red John and Lestrade who stare in turns at each other and the door, completely horrified.

* * *

_**EDIT:** I do mean "cuddly" milk, because if milk gets old, after a while, there's mould growing and it gets green and fuzzy and... cuddly :D BUT I did not know the English word for "curdled" before (well, now I do, obviously) so that review helped nevertheless. Thanks, 8of9!_


	10. 10 No and 11 Yes

**[Mycroft's additions]  
10. Learn to say "no"  
and  
11. Learn to say "yes"**

John has never been one to act overly dramatic (unlike a certain consulting detective!), but right now he is _this_ close to declare a national state of emergency, shut London – or at least Baker Street – down and bring in the fighter jets.

Because Sherlock is sick.

_Miraculously,_ Greg is busy with paper work, Mycroft is out of country (John highly doubts that and is pretty sure he and Greg hole up somewhere and wait for all of it to blow over) and even Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit Mrs. Turner (who just lives next door – how stupid do they all think John is?!). Apparently they all know how Sherlock gets when he's sick. It's just that no one bothered to tell John.

The silly little part of John's brain imagines that the moment Sherlock started to be sick – as if you can pin-point that down to a moment – there was some sort of alert, complete with red flashlight, and Greg's, Mycroft's and Mrs. Hudson's heads would shoot up simultaneously, eyes widening, before they scrambled to get as far away from 221B as possible, leaving John as the one guy in the movies who doesn't understand what's going on until it's too late. Yes, that's exactly how he feels at the moment.

Oh, he's patched up Sherlock on multiple occasions, yes, and he's more than happy to help his friend – he is a doctor, after all – but Sherlock has never been actually _sick_ before. Until now.

It had all started three days ago, when a sound that he'd never heard before startled John from his chair where he was reading the newspaper. It took him almost 10 seconds to track this sound down to have come from _Sherlock (_like admittedly most strange sounds in 221B tend to), and another 4 to realize that Sherlock – Sherlock had sneezed.

The detective himself looked rather dumbstruck, as if he couldn't believe his body had produced that, and that caused John to start laughing so hard he couldn't stop for almost five minutes. However, it should be the last time in the next couple of days.

Sherlock, despite having a head-ache, a bit of temperature and a runny nose (all things he only admitted later), accepted three different cases, that ended in a chase through London (on foot, by night), a seven-hour-stake-out (in the rain, by night) and a (admittedly involuntary) slip at the riverbank of the Thames which yes, had looked comical, but had ultimately put Sherlock over the edge.

And now he is sick, and all because he couldn't have said 'no' to the cases, and had listened to John who asked him to stay inside for a couple of days.

X

"No."

"Sherlock, just do it."

"No."

"For God's sake – it will help you and a lot of people do it when they're sick!"

"No. John, it's… disgraceful."

"You never care about that!"

"I won't do it – no!"

John throws his hands up in surrender and rakes one through his hair. Dealing with Sherlock is never easy, but when he's sick, his usual stubbornness increases by at least 100%.

"For someone who couldn't say 'no' to the bloody cases before, you seem to grasp the concept of the word quite well right now," he grumbles. "Fine. Leave it. It's not _my _nose that tries to suffocate me!"

"I am _not_ using a nasal douche!" Sherlock calls after him as he walks into the kitchen to make tea.

"Yes, I know – as I said, I'm not going to force you. You're the one to wake up from your own snoring after all…" John does his best to hide the grin from his words and busies himself with the kettle, while he thinks back to the snoring detective he's found on the sofa this morning. Sherlock then had proceeded to startle awake and had claimed _John_ had snored too loud. Of course, John had immediately pointed out that he was awake when Sherlock startled up and that sent the detective into a sulk that had lasted a good three hours.

"I am _not_ snoring!"

"Sure." John just keeps grinning to himself, takes a mug of tea to Sherlock on the sofa and sits down to type up the last three cases. Ten minutes later, he hears the mug being set down on the coffee table, and Sherlock staggers to the bathroom, curses that sound suspiciously like "Nasal douche… disgrace… not helpful… decongestant tablets much better..." muttered under his breath.

X

He is feeling better, yes.

But he'll rather perform surgery on himself than admit that. Stupid nasal douche. Stupid John. Stupid cold. Stupid transport.

"You know, thinking positive helps with getting well," John tells him, and the doctor is lucky that Sherlock feels too weak to raise his arm and that there's nothing around that can be thrown. The gun is too far away, too.

"Shooting me won't help with your cold," is all John remarks, very drily, and for a moment, Sherlock is busy with being shocked that his intentions are that obvious.

"Don't be so surprised, it's actually not that hard to tell when you want to murder someone. I've been living with you for quite some time now to recognize the signs," John explains, sounding just a bit offended because Sherlock is so surprised, but Sherlock is already past that stage. Now he feels… _proud_, almost, because John is, well… deducing.

The pride is swallowed by disdain quickly, though, because John suddenly thrusts a thermometer into his mouth – he did not see that coming, the cold seems to paralyze his transport as well as his mind – and he jerks back violently. However, the quick motion sends dizziness through his head and before he knows what's happening – unsettling, very unsettling – he's doubled over and tries not to vomit on the sitting room floor.

"Shit-" within seconds, John is next to him, and so is a bucket – _where did that come from again, he didn't even notice John getting that, oh this cold is an abomination_ – and then a firm, warm hand is rubbing circles on his back and the motion is distracting enough so he can stop retching.

John is mumbling nonsense, something about the one or the other TV show he's seen, and although Sherlock knows it's just the pitch of his voice – steady, soft – that's supposed to be calming, the anger at himself, his transport, his weakness and John (because he's here and it's convenient and he really shouldn't push thermometers down Sherlock's throat!) takes over and he staggers to his feet and towards the bathroom, where he locks himself in, ignoring John's calls.

X

The silence after he re-emerges from the bathroom is heavy, full of tension and not exactly comfortable – which is rare in 221B. It's afternoon now, Sherlock is feeling marginally better and he is clear enough to read in John's body language. The doctor wants to talk about something. Something is bothering him. He-

"Why is it so hard for you to accept help? You know, you don't have to rely on just yourself."

Ah, dull, useless topic. But it's better than this uncomfortable silence. "It's only logical, seeing as I'm usually the smartest person around." Sherlock says this without being stuck up – it's the truth, a fact.

"So you still don't trust me?"

At the sound of John's voice, he looks up – something is wrong.

"I mean, I get that you jumped off St. Bart's to protect Greg, Mrs. Hudson and me – but didn't you think, even for one moment, to just tell me about all of it? You know I could've helped. And even now, that you're back, you still think you're the most reliable person around?"

"I… did not say that." _Well, okay, technically, he did._ "You are one of the only persons I trust with my life-"

"But not with your mind, or your well-being? I get to shoot the baddies, but you won't accept help from me when it's not a life-or-death-situation?"

Sherlock doesn't like that he starts feeling bad. He also feels the need to defend himself. "I've always been living by myself. I can manage."

"Of course you can! But you don't _have_ to. Look, I get that you're perfectly fine on your own, but other people care for you, and you should let them. Those who care for you _know_ you – and they won't coddle you to death or whatever it is you fear."

"But why would I want that? I don't need-"

It's a well-known phrase. An eternity - or so it seems – ago, he's had that conversation. With Molly.

"_What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me. No, I just mean... I mean... if there's anything you need - it's fine."_

"_But what could I need from you?"_

John's voice comes softly through his memories, bringing him back to 221B, after the fall, alive again. "I know you don't need. But… you care for them, and you show it by jumping off St. Bart's. Let them jump off a hospital for you, too – verbally speaking, of course."

Now a small smile plays on John's face, and Sherlock feels himself mirroring the motion tentatively.

Another thought seems to cross John's mind then, and Sherlock's eyes follow him lazily as his flat-mate leans over and picks up the bucket list.

"I actually think this is what Mycroft tried to show you when he added these two points to the list. You two might not get along that well, but he does care for you."

"He'd care more if I was cake," Sherlock mumbles, but honestly – he feels too exhausted to put up much of a fight. And John is at least partially right – he is a doctor, therefore knows best what is good for Sherlock in his sick state. And maybe… maybe he can accept John caring for him once in a while. He's making him eat one meal a day anyways. There won't be much of a change.

"So, promise you'll at least try and accept other people's help sometimes? Promise to trust me?"

Of course, these two questions are completely different and even Sherlock in his inept-with-emotions and sick state can understand this. This is more. Like when they had that argument at the Baskerville case. This is important to John.

Surprisingly, it is for him, too.

Maybe he should really reconsider his opinion about the whole matter a bit. After all, it's not like he will go back to having John think he is dead ever again.

These six months… they have been a whirlwind of violence, sleep-less nights, a journey around the world. Criminals – drug dealers, murderers, rapists and Sherlock in the middle. Every night was a danger night, back then, the cocaine beckoning. Other drugs, to numb himself against all the input. The heat. The cries. People living in poverty, next to people living in wealth. Sickness. The scum of the world.

An endless hunt. Messages, from Mycroft, every week.

_John sat by your grave again all night._

_His therapist is suspecting a deeper bond between you, but he won't talk to her._

_He stared at his gun for three hours this morning. I had my people pick it up while he was in the bathroom._

_DI Lestrade found him on the roof of the hospital today, at the edge._

_His therapist thinks his PTSD has come back. She is right. He still won't talk to her._

And because he remembers all of that, he knows that he will have to let John know this. Because John needs it. And Sherlock… Sherlock needs it too.

When he looks up, it's dark outside, and John is standing in front of him with a mug of tea in his hands, face emotionless.

There seems to have time passed, how long, Sherlock doesn't know. Maybe two or three hours.

He hopes it's not too late. (Oh, the familiar feeling.) Sits up. Takes the mug from John's hands.

And he says: "Yes."

X

Both men know the 'yes' is an affirmation of many things.

_Yes, I'll try and let people actually care for me. _

_Yes, I trust you. _

_Yes, I'll wait for you instead of just running off on my own._

_Yes, I'll tell you about things, even if I consider them obvious or not worth my time._

_Yes, I'll probably fail trying to do all of that._

But that's why the point on the bucket list says "_Learn_ to say 'yes'."

John doesn't expect Sherlock to change his whole character, not even a bit. Sherlock will never need to change. But Sherlock – Sherlock is willing to learn something new.

The detective picks up a pen, and with a crooked – and somehow careful – grin directed at John, crosses off the 11th point.

"Number 10, too. You'll get there."

Sherlock doesn't look too convinced, but when John just makes an encouraging face, he shrugs and draws a line through the previous point, too. John nods in affirmation and then reaches out to feel Sherlock's forehead.

"Mmh, you still feel a bit warm, but the temperature usually goes up in the evening. Do you think you can stomach some soup?"

Sherlock's face falls instantly. "There's a huge difference to what I can do and what I want to do."

"And there's a huge difference in what I care about you want and what you need to do because otherwise I'm going to give you a sick note and send it to Lestrade and you won't get cases for two weeks."

"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and tries to read John's face, but the whole I'm-an-intimidating-consulting-detective-with-a-br ain-the-size-of-a-watermelon is not quite as effective as he wants it to be because halfway in his staring, his face suddenly crinkles up and he sneezes. Again.

THIS IS BLOODY RIDICULOUS!

"Chicken soup it is," John declares, passes a tissue to his miserably groaning friend and sets to work.

Half an hour later, two servings of soup and some paracetamol later, Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, curls adorably ruffled. And he's only snoring the tiniest bit.

With a tired smile, John throws a blanket over him and settles down with his phone, determined to tell Greg just how much he hates him for not telling him how bad Sherlock can get when he's sick.

(Except that he doesn't really mind that much.)


	11. 12 Identify and 13 Stop

**12. Identify your fears and overcome them  
and  
13. Stop hating yourself**

John, in an afterthought, supposes he had it coming for a while now. After all, Mycroft has not kidnapped him in weeks, and John's plan of simply avoiding seeing him (because he's shagging Greg, and it's not about being homophobic but Greg and Mycroft are _shagging _as in _sleeping with each other_ as in _having sex_ and _why did Sherlock have to tell him_?! John could've lived without this vivid imagery in his mind about his mate and the substitute Queen of England) was probably doomed to fail from the beginning. They are talking Mycroft here, after all.

In the past thirty minutes, he's been abducted from Tesco's (at least one of the shaved gorillas that seem to be working as bodyguards had taken care of the shopping and John had snickered when the man had failed to deal with the Chip and PIN machine. Old habits die hard and John, just like any other short human, has a sore spot for people that tower over him – Sherlock being another great example – and the natural malicious joy when tall people fail at things is an (admittedly bad, but still) habit), man-handled into a car with Anthea and dumped at Mycroft's office.

Three attempts at conversation with Mycroft's assistant have failed because the only topic they have in common is actually Mycroft and from the short slip in her facade, John can tell that Anthea, too, is absolutely not interested in discussing him with John. So silence it is.

Now John is sitting comfortably (or as comfortably as it gets when you expect the worst – which is basically what you have to expect when facing Mycroft Holmes) across the older Holmes, who, as an explanation to why John is here, has a copy of Sherlock's bucket list in front of him, with the 12th point highlighted.

He doesn't mince matters. "What do you imagine a mind like Sherlock's fears?"

John thinks about it for a while, closely watched by Mycroft. Finally, he tries: "Mental diseases of some sort? His work is everything to him, and if something threatened his mind, he wouldn't be able to work anymore."

Mycroft looks actually pleased for a moment (not that he shows it for longer than a split-second, but yeah, John's Holmes-abilities come to good use here) but then shakes his head. "A good idea, but no. When Sherlock was high, the one thing he feared was going back to his normal self. He will never admit that, and maybe he even has deleted it, but I've heard him, I've seen him. I know."

"But he's clean now," John says firmly. The need to defend Sherlock once again becomes over-bearing and despite the fact that he knows Mycroft probably finds that amusing or whatever, he's not holding it back.

"Oh, I know. But he has found something else. Think, Doctor Watson – what does Sherlock have now that he didn't have a few years back?"

The answer dawns on John after only a few seconds. And he knows Mycroft knows he knows it, but it's not easy to say out loud, because no matter how he can put it, it will always sound... pathetic. Finally, he gives in, and mutters a still disbelieving: "Me."

"Yes. A... friend-"

John doesn't like the way Mycroft says that, not at all.

"-and although I advised him against this sort of caring, he formed a strong bond with you. Well, he never did what I asked of him..." A thin smile is playing around Mycroft's lips now and John openly smirks because this is the one thing he can imagine just fine.

"The whole not-caring thing didn't work out for you too well, either," he adds, "I mean, with Greg and all..."

"I have been mistaken before." _When I betrayed Sherlock to Moriarty,_ stays unspoken but is present in both men's minds.

"I'd prefer if that admission stays between us, but-" one glance of Mycroft up and down his body "-but I don't think I can count on that."

John just smiles sweetly once, before he drops the smile again. Just because Mycroft seems almost semi-human now (with the whole Greg thing) John is still not simply going to _trust_ him. Trust needs to be earned. "Why are you telling me all that, anyways?"

"Because I worry about my brother."

"Yes, constantly, I got that the last twenty times."

"It's the truth. I was and am still sure that re-discovering this bucket list and working on the points is doing my brother good. He has detached himself too much, almost lost himself, especially while he was-" _dead_ "-away. You have a great influence on him, Doctor Watson. With your help, Sherlock might not only become human, but also a good one."

"He is the best man I know," John simply states, repeating the words he spoke at the grave. The air is thick with tension.

"Of course. But you see – he has never been good with emotions, and he is probably more scarred than he feels or wants to admit. Our childhood wasn't easy. I know our mother has filled you in on some details."

"Your abusive father." John clenches his fists, out of reflex, and Mycroft quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing about it.

"Yes, our father. You see, despite it might not look like it, Sherlock and I are very similar. Our minds have always been our greatest asset. However, Sherlock always had a hard time... filtering the things he says. There have been tests, psychologists, therapies – everyone diagnosed something else, and in the end Sherlock picked what he liked best – what is it at the moment? Sociopath?"

John is attentive, but he remains silent, taking in everything and trying not to start screaming at the world for messing with young Sherlock like that.

"Of course he was smarter than most of the professionals, knew the tests. I think in the end he purposely messed up the tests to bring them to the verge of desperation. But that is of no matter for today. As I said, Sherlock never filtered the things he said, so as soon as he started talking, he started deducing. And our father never dealt well with both our intellect, much less his five-year-old son telling him that he knew about the affairs he was having. It was an open secret, at least to our mother, but my father saw a threat in Sherlock. He was too loud, too nosy, too smart. I blended in, and when he started comparing Sherlock to me, Sherlock got angry."

Never before in his life has John felt this violent, but if Holmes Senior would have walked through the door at that moment, he'd shot him in the head straight away, he is sure. However, he is angry on Mycroft too – and the older Holmes brother seems to see that.

"Before you judge, hear this story to its end. I could never do much when our father abused Sherlock verbally, but I always stepped in when he got physical."

"He hit you?"

"He tried to push Sherlock down the stairs, hit him in the face, things like that. I stepped in whenever I could." Mycroft interrupts himself and undoes the buttons on his right shirt cuff, rolling back the sleeve a bit and showing a pale wrist to John. It has a long scar on it, going up a good five centimetres. "Sherlock has a similar cut on his knee. He had been experimenting with a chemistry set when our father once again got angry at him. He pushed Sherlock into the vials, which broke. When I ran to protect him, I was pushed me down, too. Shortly after that incident, our father had a heart attack and died. Needless to say, we didn't feel too sorry."

All of John's anger has deflated suddenly, and now he feels genuinely bad for being angry at Mycroft. Sherlock's brother has made mistakes, yes, but if that story is true – and John doesn't doubt it is, not this time – he has wronged Mycroft.

For a short while, both men are silent, Mycroft no doubt still living through some memories, while John tries to cope with what he's been told. Finally, he clears his throat and says: "Thank you, for telling me. I'm not going to push Sherlock into telling me these things by himself, if that's what you're concerned about."

"Oh, no. Like I said, he has long ago closed that chapter, but what I need you to do is reassure him of your wish to continue to live with him from time to time. He doesn't show it – and we can't be sure he even realizes it himself – but he is very dependent on you."

X

This night, John tells Sherlock that he will not leave him any time soon.

At first, Sherlock seems bothered, as per usual when someone is being sentimental, but when John tells him that he's been talking to Mycroft (and survives the temper tantrum Sherlock throws (including _actual throwing_ of two letters, a pillow, a jar containing fingernails – _gross_ – and the matching hand – chopped off, without fingernails) when he hears that), his flat-mate gets strangely silent.

"You know, he didn't say anything mean about you. He just told me a bit of your childhood, about your father... What I'm trying to say is that I know you're a bit-" _okay, understatement of the century,_ "-uncomfortable with talking about these things. I just want you to know that you don't have to tell me about all of the points on the bucket list. I mean, of course I'm interested, and I want to help you and I'm going to listen to you, but if you just want to deal with this by yourself that's.. uhm, that's fine. Just keep in mind that nothing you could tell me would make me leave here. I already know how bloody infuriating you can be, and I'm still here, right?" He adds the last sentence just to lighten the mood a bit, and to give Sherlock the chance to reply to something, if he doesn't want to talk about the rest John said.

There's thankfulness in Sherlock's eyes- just for a split-second, mind you, but it's there – and he replies: "It's not my concern if you don't understand the importance of body parts in the fridge."

"Or under my bed," John remarks.

If Sherlock is surprised he found them, he doesn't show it. He just smirks – doesn't even have the decency to blush, or say he's sorry. Not that John expected that.

That's all serious talk they have that day, but when John emerges from the bathroom that evening, points 12 and 13 are crossed out.

Sherlock doesn't comment on it, though, and John decides not to push – after all, that's what he promised, right?

Half an hour later, he's asleep in front of the TV, and his head slowly comes to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. And the detective doesn't move away.

X

_Of course Mycroft would interfere_ – that's what he always does after all. For a while, Sherlock dwells on fantasies of poisoned cake, or the feasibility of the Vulcan nerve pinch (John made him watch Star Trek and he hasn't yet come around to delete the unnecessary information).

He's pulled out of his musings, though, when he suddenly feels a warm weight on his shoulder. A look to the side tells him that John has fallen asleep there. He contemplates shrugging him off, but a few things argue against it – firstly, John would wake up, and he would be annoyed which is annoying for Sherlock; secondly, John has endured Mycroft for over an hour today, so he has definitely earned himself the right to rest; and thirdly – Sherlock doesn't really mind it. In fact, having John that close – resting on top of him – is oddly reassuring. It's anchoring Sherlock in the present, so he can't drift off too far with his mind.

He tries to tell himself it has nothing to do with the thing John had tried to talk – or, well, not-talk about earlier, but (as much as he hates Mycroft for it) it's true. The one thing that constantly bothers Sherlock (he wouldn't go as far as to say he 'fears' it (except he does)) is the possibility of John leaving.

The immense self-hate Sherlock has felt, especially during the months abroad, when he was dead (lonely nights, nights to think and overthink and fear and hate), has never fully passed, and now, with John close, he can allow himself to re-visit it without being pulled down into the darkness of his own thoughts.

He hates himself for doing what he had to do, to John (and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, although they dealt with it differently. Better.), despite knowing it was the right thing to do. To John, the one person in the Moriarty-madness that never, not once doubted him. (Lestrade was never convinced he was a fraud either, and Mrs. Hudson loves him too dearly to think bad of him, but John has ultimately been the one who has run with him all the way. Except for the way down the hospital. There, he needed to fall. Alone.)

There's no necessity and telling John all that, and Sherlock can live with it by himself very easily.

But...

But then he starts talking, to John who's asleep, and when he's finished, he feels relieved, and the self-hate ebbs away a bit.

John's sleeping figure is still soft, warm, limp against him, and then Sherlock does the most selfish, illogical, unnecessary thing he has ever done – he presses his face into John's hair, just for a moment. Inhales. Maybe moves his lips a bit. A peck. Nothing more.

He can't explain it, yet it feels right. And it's not like anyone will ever know.

X

John is in this weird state where he is technically asleep, but not quite sleeping, and so he can't be sure if he imagines Sherlock's voice or not. He stays still, and listens to stories about a sad, lonely child that was too smart for the world around; falls in and out of dreams.

And then there's a face in his hair, and he is sure that he is dreaming.


	12. 14 Revisit

_100 REVIEWS! YOU GUYS ARE INSANE AND I WISH I COULD HUG ALL OF YOU._

* * *

**[Mycroft's addition]  
14. Take time to revisit the places that made you who you are**

"Where are we?"

A small alleyway, somewhere in London, obviously. But John is not asking for a street name. Sherlock has told him to come along this morning, but he wouldn't say where they were going. Now they have stopped here, and John has absolutely no idea what is going on.

It's an ordinary alleyway, a bit dirty, very dark, admittedly in a part of the city that doesn't exactly inspire much confidence. There's some garbage bins, fire exits, and some ominous stains on the ground that John doesn't really care to analyse further.

Sherlock stands with his hands behind his back, and stares down the narrow way unfazed.

"This is where I met Lestrade."

Oh. _Oh._

"He… told me about that night, actually. Said he was walking home, his first free night in ages." That's partially true. Greg told John a bit more. About the state Sherlock was in. But John – correctly – assumes that this is about the 14th point on the bucket list, and besides – this is Sherlock's story to tell. What Greg told him was so he knew about Sherlock's 'danger nights', but if Sherlock wants to fill him in on a few more details, he should be allowed to do it in his own words. John is definitely interested. However, he knows that Sherlock usually doesn't talk about these things.

"I assume Lestrade has told you a bit more, but yes. In a nutshell, this is how we met," Sherlock confirms, but he doesn't sound bothered by John's knowledge. Instead, he walks over to some bins and kneels down, reaches out for something that's not there, his hand hovering mid-air for a second.

"Most likely, I would have died that night, if he hadn't walked past and had stopped."

"You overdosed?"

"Yes." Sherlock doesn't say if it was intentionally or not, and John doesn't ask. Some things are best discussed another time. "I felt something was wrong, and my body instinctively fought it. When Lestrade walked past, I couldn't help but see so much on him – his occupation, the troubles with his newly-wed wife, the case that kept him awake at night – that I called out. I knew everything about his murderer, just from looking at Lestrade, and I longed to solve this mystery for him. It helped me cling to reality."

The consulting detective looks up now, and towards the exit of the alleyway, and John can easily imagine a young, completely high Sherlock staring at the passing DI-in-training; silver eyes piercing through the darkness and the rain.

"He called an ambulance as soon as he saw me, but my brother was quicker. When two of his minions came to pick me up, I told Greg I knew who had murdered the three young girls. Two days later, he visited me in the facility where I had been brought to recover. The rest is history, as they say."

"You mean, he offered you cases as long as you stayed clean?"

"Obviously." Sherlock gets up and for a while, John is searching for the right words. Of course, Sherlock doesn't want sympathy, or pity. But John feels like he needs to say something. And then he simply says the one thing he feels, the thing that comes to his mind when he thinks of Lestrade and Sherlock in the gutter, the older man holding on to Sherlock, ordering him to keep breathing, to fight it, to stay with him.

"I'm glad Greg found you. I don't know what I'd done if I hadn't met you."

"Lived another life, presumably," Sherlock replies swiftly, but it's said without drive, as if the air has been knocked out of his lungs and he tries to play it down.

Both men knew it's not true. Lestrade saved Sherlock; and Sherlock saved John.

X

The Yard is an obvious next choice, and as they walk the hallways, Sherlock tells John about the cases he solved before they met. When Sherlock mentions his involvement in a rather spectacular kidnapping case, that had even made it down to Afghanistan in the news, John's jaw hangs slightly open.

"You were the anonymous advisor?"

"I believe that is what Lestrade told the press, yes. It's interesting that you heard of it in Afghanistan, though. There wasn't even a murder, just a boring kidnapping."

"A boring- a boring kidnapping? It was the son of-" John starts, but then realizes that, in Sherlock's mind, kidnapping actually is boring. There is no body to examine, not as many clues to follow as when there is a _nice_ murder, and in most cases, the victims are released shortly later, in exchange for some money. Not much of a mystery. "Nevermind."

X

"This is where we met," John says, smiling half-fondly at the memory, half-proud of realizing why they're here. Sherlock smiles to himself, too.

"Obviously," he says, just so John doesn't think he will tolerate the stating of the obvious all the time. He can make an exception for John once. Or twice. But that's it. And just because it's John.

"I still can't believe I moved in with you after you told me you forgot your riding crop in the morgue."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Are you being serious? In your own words, the riding crop is probably the least bad thing I left somewhere."

"Oh yes, the foot under my bed was worse, definitely," John admits with a shudder.

"Plural, John."

"Wait what?"

"Feet – oh I take it you haven't found the other two?"

"The _other_ two? No, wait, the other _two_?" Nausea fights with curiosity in John's voice, Sherlock hears it, and he can't stop himself from smirking. "Where's the fourth then? One human has two feet, so why are there three under my bed? Where's the fourth?"

Ah, John. Always asking the right questions.

"Under my bed, of course." He doesn't expect John to understand.

"Yes, well, where else would it be?" The doctor puts a hand on his forehead, and then turns in the lab, taking the familiar rooms in. "You know, when you said 'flatmates should know the worst about each other', maybe mentioning the body parts would have been a good idea."

"Would you have moved in if I told you I kept body parts in the fridge?" _And under the bed, in the microwave and between the cushions of the sofa. _Come to think of it, he'll have to remove the fingers from there when they get home or they might start to smell.

"Probably not."

"See, it was the right decision not to tell you."

And John tries to stay grumpy, but he can't and Sherlock sees his lips twitch and then he says: "Probably right."

"Definitely right."

X

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to bring John out here. They're not on the rooftop – even Sherlock realizes that might be too triggering – but the small piece of pavement where he collided with the ground, now clean of blood (well, as clean as it will ever be, being a sidewalk in London, after all) and dead-detective-lacking still makes John clench his fists and his face pales visibly.

"This was the worst day of my life," John tells him quietly, and he looks up, internally surprised. He doesn't want to, but he can't help himself, so he asks:

"Afghanistan; getting shot at surely must-"

"It wasn't."

They stand in silence, again, until John straightens his back, and moves to hail a cab. Sherlock, for once, follows.

How times change. Sherlock never used to follow. He was always the one being followed. But now he does, and John gives out the directions to the graveyard.

Half an hour later, they stand in front of the black tombstone.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

No dates. No _"In loving memory of" _or _"Dearly missed father and friend"._

The name speaks for itself – at least it used to, back when they grave had been dug.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

_Fraud. Liar. Fake._

"I, uhm, figured we might as well come here, too. It is part of your life, a place that made you who you are, after all. Not that you actually were here. But you know what I mean."

John sounds careful, as always when they approach this topic, and Sherlock, as always, isn't sure what to say.

Surely _'I watched you from over there'_ would be the wrong thing.

"Did you know I never made it to your funeral?" John's voice is flat.

Yes, he knows. He's been there, after all. Watched the coffin with his 'body' disappear in the ground.

He'd been hurt, back then. Thought that John actually believed what he told him. That everything was a lie. He'd thought John didn't want to come to the funeral because he was disappointed, and angry, and hated him.

That night had been the first actual danger night, and Mycroft had endured being insulted for 12 hours straight, just so he could keep an eye on Sherlock.

(If John knew about this, he'd surely make him go to Mycroft and say thank you like a good little brother should. Sometimes it's good that John doesn't know.)

And then John had appeared at his grave, and had begged for him to come back, and although he almost cried again (the crying is still the thing he cannot believe until today. Tears, on his face, at the edge of the rooftop. _Tears.) _and the urge to just call out and end the scheme had been enormous.

In the end, he had stayed in the shadows, and then went to do the job he needed to do.

"It wasn't easy for you either, was it?"

Sherlock looks up at the weird question. It's never been like this before. It's John who had to live without him, it's John who had to stay behind and bury his best friend. It's John who had fought for Sherlock's name, for everything they had achieved together.

And of course it's been hard for Sherlock, too, but it's enough that _he_ knows. John doesn't need to know, he deserves not-knowing, because he's beared so much.

Nevertheless, Sherlock finds himself saying "Yes."

"If you ever want to, uhm, talk about it-"

"I don't." He says it softly, so John knows he's not rejecting him. Because that's what's always been important. How John feels. He only sees it now. But it's true.

"Right. Just… I appreciate what you did for me, and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. I really do. Just because I was angry and sad doesn't mean I don't appreciate your sacrifice."

"You lost your best friend," Sherlock states calmly, and although he still can't quite believe he's someone's best friend, it's – amazingly – true.

John gives him a small smile. "You lost yours, too."

And he's right. The best-friend-thing is something that works both ways, at least in their case. Maybe Sherlock doesn't always (or, well, ever) voice it, but John is his best friend.

"I've come back."

"You have."

They leave the graveyard, walking close to each other, shoulders brushing.

X

"This is where you came back to me."

_Oh shit, he should probably have said 'to life'. Or at least 'to 221B'._

Sherlock either doesn't notice (unlikely) or doesn't care (more likely), because he simply adds: "It is also where you punched me in the face."

"Still not sorry. And besides, I bruised my hand, too."

"Well, I had the cheekbones sharpened for the occasion."

John does a double take, because has Sherlock actually made a joke?! A honest, down-to-earth joke?

From the way he smirks, he has, and he knows John is disbelieving.

And John – John decides stranger things have happened on the pavement before 221B before (namely, his best friend coming back to life).


	13. Interlude

Over the course of history, many groups of people have attracted the interest of others. There were Jesus and the Eleven, the Beatles, the Three Little Pigs or the Avengers – but London has never seen as unlikely a group to form as forms at the end of September, in a small Italian restaurant overlooking Northumberland Street.

The first one to arrive is a tall man carrying an umbrella, wearing a designer suit (the man, not the umbrella, although that accessory has been pretty expensive, too, and maybe it's not so much accessory at all – the rumours range from gun to wand to strip sabre). He is accompanied by a woman typing away on her Blackberry. The pair stops briefly in front of the closed door of the restaurant, and the man gives the woman an expectant look. However, when she doesn't spring into action, he sighs and pushes the door open, letting her step in first.

"You _are_ my assistant, Anthea."

"And you are a gentleman," she replies easily, nods at the owner of the restaurant (a large Italian with a friendly face) without actually looking up from her phone and sits down at a big table in the corner. The man follows suit and looks out of the window, just in time to see a cab arrive.

An old lady climbs out and the man in the suit looks at his assistant pointedly.

All she does is quirk an eyebrow. "I'm _your_ assistant, Mr. Holmes, not hers. Be a gentleman again."

He gets up (longing for the old days, when you could simply throw disobedient and insolent staff in the Tower of London to let them rot there) and, quite quickly for someone who dislikes exercise altogether, makes his way out again, to collect the small woman.

Safely back inside, she sits down next to Anthea and smiles. "It's good to see you again, dear. I hope Mycroft isn't working you too hard? He is such a gentleman as of lately, though!"

Anthea smiles back, eyes finally leaving the phone. "Isn't he just?"

The door to the restaurant opens again, then, and a petite brunette stumbles in, cheeks red and hair slightly disheveled. She hastily makes her way through the tables until she can sit on down on the other side of Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry if I'm late but I was running some samples-" the 'for Sherlock' remains unspoken, but heard, "and then we got a new victim at the morgue, and he was in such a bad state- I mean, aside from being dead-"

"It's quite alright, Molly," Mrs. Hudson interrupts her, and Anthea nudges Mycroft, who barely hides his eye-rolling (not that one Mycroft Holmes rolls his eyes, of course – except that he and Sherlock are so similar in some ways that they share some habits like rolling their eyes at blabbering people. Or falling in love.)

The small gathering is interrupted by the howling of sirens and then a police car slithers to a halt right on the pavement in front of the restaurant.

The doubtful, wary watcher might think that the owner of the restaurant called the police to get rid of the strange group before _something_ happens, but the DI that enters the restaurant now just smiles and casually strolls over to the table.

"Your boyfriend sure knows how to make an impressive entrance," Anthea whispers and watches with content how her boss's cheeks tint pink. Teasing Mycroft might definitely be among her favourite pastime activities. The DI greets everyone and then slides onto the seat next to Mycroft with a content sigh.

As if on command, the owner of the restaurant brings trays full of food and then sits down next to Molly, a broad grin on his face.

"Thank you, Angelo," Mycroft says and is just about to start the meeting, when the door of the restaurant opens one last time.

In _saunters _a woman not dressed for the season (then again, the bondage-looking dress might not be appropriate anywhere, no matter the season), and the eyes of everyone rest on her a bit longer than strictly necessary. She's used to it.

"You didn't start without me, did you?"

"You… you're dead," Molly announces, a bit pale, and seeing as she's the only one to speak, the woman concentrates on her.

"Sherlock's not the only one good at magic tricks," she replies and sits between Angelo and Greg. (Under the table, Mycroft's hand twitches possessively on Greg's thigh.)

"You look a bit cold, dear," Mrs. Hudson remarks, directing her eyes at the more-than-exposed, long legs. "You ought to dress warmer in this weather, or you'll end up with a bad hip, like me."

"I imagine her hips have dealt with worse than the weather," Mycroft states drily (and fantasizes about the good old days again, where too revealing women had been pilloried – it's not that actually wishes the Middle Ages back, but… sometimes they are rather appealing) and Irene smirks.

"Now, let's come to why we are here tonight; there have been developments as of lately, in which my brother might require… assistance."

"He's in love," Greg clarifies, rolling his eyes at his partner affectionately.

"Precisely," Mycroft replies, and his voice sounds like he has just announced World War Three.

X

The a-bit-more-than-half Knights of the Round Table soon split into two camps – one side, consisting of Mrs. Hudson, Irene, Angelo and Molly, think that John needs a push, while Greg, Mycroft and Anthea think it's Sherlock who need to get his head out of his ass (how Greg puts it).

"The doctor needs to say something to Sherlock. It's always him who says they are not a couple, so he needs to make it right," Angelo argues in his thick Italian accent. He eyes the candles on the table in front of him with misery. "I can help with the atmosphere, but he needs to say the right words!"

"You put candles in front of us, too," Molly points out and Irene quickly replies: "And can't you feel the romance already?" with a wink at the blushing young woman.

"Maybe he can give Sherlock a nice present," Angelo muses, still convinced of his point of view. "I know where to get nice watches-"

"I'll pretend I did not hear that," Greg murmurs and chugs his beer.

"They are not stolen!" Angelo protests, hurt obvious on his face. When Mycroft simply cocks an eyebrow, though, he raises his hands in surrender and adds, a bit quieter: "Not by me."

"How about we just agree on no watches – stolen or not – for Sherlock?" Greg tries to be diplomatic. "I still think _he_ needs to say something. I see how John looks at him. He waits for a sign, I'm sure."

"I think so, too," Molly adds and when the attention turns to her, she once again gets red speckles high on her cheeks (while men frequently have their blood directed southwards, Molly seems to suffer under the same issue, only it's northbound with her. _Blush-boners.),_ but continues: "But Sherlock is not… he doesn't know he has to say something, or maybe the thinks he doesn't need to. So John needs to act. It's not good if he keeps, uhm, liking him from afar." _Like I have,_ she doesn't say.

"Maybe you could kidnap one of them and the other has to rescue him," Mrs. Hudson proposes, with a thoughtful look towards Mycroft, and everyone at the table is terrified by the old ladies' idea but tries to hide it. "Just like in the movies, you know?" she adds, a bit unsure as to why everyone is looking at her like that. (She has watched a lot of romantic comedies lately.)

"I see why Sherlock chose her as his landlady," Irene remarks drily, and Mycroft says:"With respect, I'd rather not do that. I wouldn't hear the end of it and we _are_ spending Christmas together this year."

For a while, everyone tries to think of other ways, all the while eating what Angelo has provided (and it's quite a lot – he seems to live under the impression that, like John and Sherlock, they only have fridges with body parts instead of actual food at home).

Finally, Mrs. Hudson perks up again (the others ready themselves for another either completely terrifying or kitschy plan) but she only wonders: "What about that case, the one with the nice young lad – oh, I don't remember his name, but he had this rather prominent jug ears and it was something with a dog…"

"You mean Baskerville?" Greg helps her out.

She beams at him. "Yes, exactly! They were a bit different when they came back from that. A bit… closer than before, I think."

"I believe my brother drugged John and they had a fight."

"No but Mrs. Hudson is right, I was there-" Greg quickly elaborates, "something changed with them, there."

"So we have our plan!" Irene leans back in her chair, looking like a cat that got the cream. "You-" she points at Mycroft, "make sure they take a case outside of London, and you-" now it's Greg's turn, "keep an eye on them. It would be a shame if something happened to Sherlock. He is quite kissable, I must say."

"You should keep an eye on her, too," Anthea suggests with a smirk, and Irene grins back.

"Oh, no worries, I'll only join in when I'm asked."

"If."

"Didn't I say that?"

X

Not that far away, in Baker Street, Sherlock has the feeling of impending doom, and it's just like always when he feels that – he is torn between excitement (might be a new serial killer, oh, you gotta love those!) and annoyance (nah, it's most likely Mycroft plotting the fall of another government after the fiasco in A- oh, that's probably confidential).

However, the members of the Love Squad (a name Mrs. Hudson – loving the whole plotting because it feels like one of these soap-operas on telly, Angelo – always happy to help Sherlock (especially so in love matters), and Irene – who is greatly amused by the whole project, were in favour of, although the others said a name was unnecessary and rather ridiculous) remain undetected by Sherlock, as is their plotting.

Their time will come.

And until it comes, the bucket list will continue to bring out the best in Sherlock.


	14. 17 How you feel

_No worries, point 17 is **supposed** to come first, since 15/16 are a two-parter and take place after completing this point :)_

* * *

**17. Make a habit of telling people how you feel**

It's a normal day at the Yard. Except it isn't.

"Lestrade, I do think it's quite revolting that you choose to be with my brother of all people-"

However, A sharp look from John tells Sherlock that this is borderline not-good, so he adds (somehow begrudgingly) "but since you are, ah, _happy-_"

A nod from John.

"-and a- a good man-"

More approval.

"-and Mycroft is-"

Another sharp look.

"-not quite as annoying as he used to be-"

Approving nodding from John again, so good.

"- I am willing to tolerate this situation."

"Is he giving me his… blessing?" Greg asks, looking at John rather than Sherlock.

"Kind of. He's working on telling people how he feels about them."

Now Greg looks terrified. "You sure that's a good idea, mate? It's not like he is exactly backward about being forward."

"I asked him to try and find nice things to say, too."

For a moment, Greg looks thoughtful, but then a grin spreads on his face. "I bet you 20 quid that he won't manage with _everyone_. Anderson is on forensics today."

Ah, John's weakness- he's never been able to resist a good bet. And besides, he's fairly certain Sherlock can manage if he really tries.

The two men shake hands, Greg already confident of victory and John – plotting how to avoid Anderson. Just to be on the safe side.

X

"Ah, Molly, you're finally here. 20 minutes late, but it doesn't really matter – I need you to run these samples through some tests-"

"I'll be just a moment," she interrupts the detective and that is unusual enough for him to look up from where he's hovering over some files with John (shoulders brushing, as they always seem to do lately).

The infamous look that tells Sherlock everything about a person takes Molly in quickly and then the deductions sputter from his mouth.

"Your dress is wrinkled and the same one as yesterday which suggests you dressed in a hurry yesterday and dressed in the same manner today. You're also carrying breakfast with you, so you haven't had the chance to eat this morning. This rules out being stuck in traffic, since you prefer the Tube anyways and even if you went by car – which you didn't – you would've had breakfast since you had no way of realizing you would be stuck, not even with rush hour."

"Breathe," John reminds him with a smirk (and a warm hand on his back which actually makes his brain stop for a moment – just a split-second), but then Sherlock simply quirks an eyebrow at him before continuing.

"There is a hickey you're trying to hide with your scarf and make-up – I can see residues of powder on it – and you're walking cautiously, suggesting you had intercourse more than once last night and probably this morning."

Molly is beet-root red by now and both she and John stammer an awkward "Sherlock!" by which the detective remains unfazed.

"You're not the type for a one-night stand – unresolved father issues, clingy personality - and since _you_ left _him_ – tall, dark hair, stubble or full grown beard, by the way – this morning in a hurry, he is most likely still in your flat, which you wouldn't allow a stranger. So, boyfriend then."

It's only now that Sherlock seeks out John's eyes and sees the look that says 'if you don't say anything nice now, I'll bin the cat fetus and the pig feet the instance we come home'. And because John is serious and Sherlock remembers the bloody bucket list, he turns back to Molly, giver her his most charming, winning smile and adds: "Which is _lovely_ for you!"

(Which it isn't because that means she'll be more occupied with the anonymous boyfriend and not as open to Sherlock's charms anymore, and he's sure he's not supposed to lie about his feelings about that – honesty being a basic of the whole bucket list concept – but John wants him to be nice and so… he is.)

Molly's eyes pop almost out of their sockets, but then all she does is adjust her scarf (really, the hickey is quite impressive – what is she dating, a vacuum cleaner?!) before she puts down her bag and willingly grabs Sherlock's samples. And when Sherlock even says "Thank you" she exchanges a half-terrified, half-amazed look with John and sets to work.

X

As per usual, John follows Sherlock to the crime scene and they're almost past Sergeant Donovan who's standing guard at the police line before Sherlock slows down.

John instantly fears what's coming now (also, if it already doesn't go well with Donovan, he'll definitely owe Greg 20 bucks) and so he holds Sherlock back by the crook of his elbow and quietly tells him: "Remember, you should say nice things every once in a while, too. At least she said she was sorry when you came back." _Sorry for trying to ruin his life – hell, for succeeding._

In all honesty, John has never been less willing to forgive someone, but she's been exceptionally nice to both men ever since and she's actually trying to make it up to them. Even the name-calling has stopped.

Sherlock seems to know exactly what John feels but he doesn't reply anything and simply walks around his friend to face the woman at the police line.

"Sergeant Donovan, you are not half as dim-witted as most officers at the scene today-"

John is sure that this is an insult that simply sounds good, and so is obviously Sally, but, like John, she's astonished at the concession Sherlock just made.

"-and you actually might amount to much if you stopped listening to what Anderson says."

For a minute or so, Sally looks like she doesn't know what to say, suddenly confronted with a sort-of-friendly Sherlock, but then she settles for an unsure "Thank you?" that sounds more like a question.

"Was it not clear that that was a compliment?" Sherlock asks John, one eyebrow raised, and John murmurs back: "Try leave out the 'dim-witted' part next time."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, contemplating, and then nods before a grin splits his face and he puts his hands on John's shoulders.

"Alright, then, let's have a look at the victim. Lestrade says he's been decapitated – lost body parts are always interesting!"

John rolls his eyes and laughs good-naturedly, before strolling after Sherlock. "Of course they are…"

X

After eight minutes, Sherlock has narrowed down the murderer to the man's son or father, has deduced the probable location of the head (in a bin at the back of a slaughterhouse two streets away) ("Not in our fridge, are you sure?" John has asked and earned a dead-serious "Not yet.") and Greg… well, Greg's 20 pounds richer than eight minutes prior.

As they're leaving the crime scene, John grumbles: "Couldn't you just have said he has nice hair or something?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "But he hasn't. Besides, I thought I'm supposed to share my feelings."

"Then you could've said you feel positive about him when he's-"

"When he's away?"

John does his best to stay grumpy, but after a few seconds he can't help but snort, especially at Sherlock's amused look.

"Yes, alright, you're bloody right. I'm just pissed at loosing the bet."

With a smirk, Sherlock puts his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"I might have made sure you get revenge."

John is cautious instantly. "What did you do?"

"Oh, I just might have installed a shortcut on Lestrade's phone for whenever he attempts to text 'ok'."

"That's a bit immature and besides, he won the 20 bucks square and fair," John argues, the voice of reason. He manages to hold Sherlock's eyes for exactly three seconds before he grins. "What does it say now? It's something to do with Mycroft, isn't it?"

X

In the cab, John quickly fires of a text to Greg, and when the reply comes, Sherlock and John almost double over laughing. It reads: "I am _royally_ fucked."

X

As soon as they're back in the flat, Sherlock starts pacing, muttering unintelligible things but he doesn't spit out what's bothering him before John hasn't settled down with two mugs of tea, one for the detective.

"I_ cannot_ keep this up, John! Even if I wanted to – which I don't – I can't find something new to compliment on every day, and my feelings don't change that rapidly! How do common people do this every day?!"

After taking a sip of his tea, John replies: "It's not about _complimenting_ everyone every day. It's about talking about things that bother you, but also things you like about the other person."

"That seems tedious."

"You do it all the time with me, though," John argues. When he sees Sherlock's attentive stare, he elaborates. "You tell me at least five times a day how bored you are, and how awful you find my sweaters-"

"And yet you don't seem to listen," Sherlock interrupts, smirking at the sweater-of-the-day (dark red, very simply, actually a bit to short so when John stretches, it rides up a bit) (not that Sherlock minds) (except he shouldn't be interested) (except he is).

"-my point being that you are indeed able to tell people what you think or feel."

And just when John finishes, Sherlock has a Eureka!-moment. His blogger is almost right – the one thing he's getting wrong is that it's not _people_ Sherlock is comfortable with telling things; it's not _people_ doing so comes easy with. It's _John_.

"You're brilliant!" he tells the doctor and promptly earns a quirked eyebrow, but in his mind it's already working so he can't be bothered to explain.

Making his way to his bedroom, he's clawing his clothes off, and grabs his dressing gown. Finally comfortable enough, he drops down on the sofa across John and announces: "I'll be in the mind palace!" And then he's off. (Well not literally, since his position doesn't change an inch. But still, it's as if he's completely left the room.)

"Right, and I'll just sit here and continue being brilliant."

X

John's continued brilliance basically consists of drinking tea, making toast and watching telly, but the simple, matter-of-factly voice in which Sherlock has, well, complimented him before is seared into his brain and he finds that it's yet another thing that he loves about Sherlock. He actually thinks John is something special (when of course he is not).

It's quite pathetic to keep thinking like that without taking action, though, and his long ago debated straightness (that sits in a corner and sulks, along with his reluctance to indulge in fantasy scenarios with a certain genius) aside, he knows that he's behaving bloody ridiculous. He can't just pine after Sherlock like a love-sick school girl and if Sherlock can actually tackle something like the bucket list, doing and facing things he is not comfortable with, he can surely muster up the balls to tell Sherlock just how he feels about him.

(It's just that it feels like preparing for a war, except that in a war you can shoot people if the situation escalates.)

(Also, John's been in a war before, and he was invalided – shot in the shoulder, a limp, a tremor. PTSD. It's understandable that he's a bit afraid of entering another (if personal) war. After all he knows, he might be scarred.)

He will just have to make sure that when (if?) Sherlock doesn't reciprocate or appreciate his feelings, there is no awkwardness. They can still live together, solve cases and such. John will step back and pretend nothing happened.

There is no way he is going to risk losing his best friend, just because he loves him.

John settles back in his chair, heart thumping madly in his chest, and waits for the genius to re-emerge from his mind.

X

When he's finally done, hours later, the situation is clear. However, before he can share his thoughts, he hears John's voice call out for him quietly.

"Sherlock?"

Judging by his tone, John waited for him to come back so he can talk to him. So, serious topic.

Forcing himself to sound neutral (and generally disinterested, because that's what he always sounds like) Sherlock replies "Yes", dreading what might come.

It has to be about something he said earlier.

"I need to talk to you."

X

"So, I was thinking – you're doing pretty well with your bucket list and… well, you're dealing with things that you find hard at times. And so I figured that maybe I should-"

John's carefully chosen words are interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing.

Mycroft.

John sends the phone a tired look, but gestures for Sherlock to take it.

"It's not important, it's just Mycroft," Sherlock replies, voice annoyed – he obviously has no intentions of picking up. "Probably about the short-cut on Lestrade's phone."

"You know that if you don't answer the call, he'll pop up here sooner or later," John reasons.

"But-"

"Sherlock."

"Fine." The detective grabs his phone and answers, the "Yes?" sounding as condescending as possible and despite the annoyance of being interrupted, John has to smile at his friend's antics. He might be a genius, but he's bloody predictable.

"No. Absolutely not." "We're busy." "On a case." "Lestrade told you what?!" "… You wouldn't dare." "_Fine."_

He snaps the phone shut and actually throws it across the room, where it hits the wall and then disappears beneath a stack of papers.

"So… I take it Mycroft has a case."

"If you were any more obvious you-"

"Alright, no need to insult _me_. What is it?"

"You'll see. Start packing." And with that, an extremely moody Sherlock is off to his room, from where two minor explosions are audible shortly later. John has had no chance to finish what he wants to say – but he realizes now is not the time.

And for the first time, he _completely, fully_ understands how bothered Sherlock is when he calls Mycroft an 'interfering git'. Because that is exactly what he is.

Not even the crossed out 17th point of the bucket list seems like a progress now. In his room, Sherlock continues to voice his feelings through devastation of furniture and body parts.


	15. 15 Forget

_ATTENTION: There are some references to rather gruesome deaths, and sexual themes (nothing graphic, but mentions of it) in this/the next chapter, so please be careful if that's nothing you're comfortable with!  
_

* * *

**15. Forget who you are and what your priorities are, and how you think a person should be**

_(Now)_

The moment Sherlock Holmes finally understands he feels something – something more than just friendship – for Dr. John H. Watson is tragically the moment John is about to be screwed to death. Quite literally.

X

_(Prior)_

"Why did you insist on a double room when we could've had two adjoining singles?" John asks (not because he actually minds, but he feels like he should mind) and drops their bags on the enormous double bed of the inn they are staying at.

The murder of a wealthy factory owner (Justin Kingsley, 47 years old, married, killed and cut into pieces by one of the machines in the factory until only red jam was left over) that Mycroft wants investigated is the reason for this trip, to a small town an hour from London, and frankly, John regrets having talked Sherlock into accepting. (After the temper tantrum the detective had thrown in his room, he had been close to calling Mycroft and telling him exactly just how he felt about him, but John had managed to calm him down.)

It has taken all his powers in persuasion and the end of it is that now _he_ will have to do the hard work – literally. The plan is to plant John as a temp in the factory, because the Holmeses are both sure (and agree for once!) that the murderer is one of the workers there.

But back to the problem at hand – one room, one bed. Sherlock doesn't reply to John's question and instead peaks out of the curtains onto the barely busy street.

"I mean, I'm really going to need the sleep if I'm supposed to start the shift at 4.30 in the morning and don't get me wrong, but you're not exactly the most quiet person to sleep in the same room with." Let alone bed – hell, how is he supposed to sleep with Sherlock right next to him? It's like trying to sleep through your own birthday – can't do!

Luckily enough, Sherlock is unlikely to sleep when he's on a case and John, for once, is thankful for that.

"Oh don't worry, you won't hear much from me. I'll be busy going through the data you'll have collected during the day."

"While I'm working at the factory. For ten hours. Starting at bloody half past four in the morning," John grumbles and suspiciously eyes the bag with work clothes Mycroft sent before they left London this morning. "Who the hell wears overalls these days?!"

Sherlock looks back over his shoulders and John could swear he can see a smirk. He glares daggers at his friend and then at the bright blue piece of clothing.

"Don't make such a fuss. It will bring out your eyes," the detective states dead-serious and John narrows his eyes.

"You're making fun of me?"

"I would never dare to."

"Alright, that's it-" The pillow John aims at his friend's head sends curls flying everywhere and the snort of indignation is generally ignored by the doctor.

X

A pint down at the bar of the inn and 5.5 hours of sleep later (that are not nearly enough but at least Sherlock has stayed as quiet as he promised (mostly due to his violin-less-ness)) John, yawning, is standing in the changing room of the factory.

Blessedly, there's no one besides himself there (apparently all the _sane_ people sleep until 6) which makes it easier for him, really – he has no interest in explaining the scar on his shoulder, let alone that it might give away his cover story; when he's finally dressed in a tight white t-shirt and the blue overalls (looking like a grotesque love child of a smurf and the mechanic of the Village People) he puts in the earpiece Mycroft also provided.

"Sherlock?"

Seconds later, his phone rings and he answers.

"I can hear you well, John. It's a bit unfortunate that you can't hear me, but we'll have to make do. It's more important that I hear, anyways." Right. Git.

"Yes, well – about that: It's pretty loud in the machine room, I'm not sure if you'll be able to hear that much."

"We'll see. Try and remember everything important and-"

Sherlock is cut off when John snaps his phone shut. The man in the door – tall, a bit of a beer belly, beard, glasses and a bald head looks at him with interest before asking: "'You John?"

John nods and smiles. "Yeah." He slips the phone into the breast pocket of the overalls (okay, that _is_ useful) and the man steps closer, extending his hand.

"Michael. You're assigned to me."

"Ah, yes. Nice to meet you."

Despite his rather intimidating looks, Michael seems like a nice bloke and for the next 20 minutes, he shows John around the factory before instructing him in the use of the machine he'll be in charge of.

John has been right – it is much too loud in the factory to even think of understanding what others are saying if they're not yelling into your ear (which the workers seem the be quite fond of, actually) and so all attempts at questioning have to be postponed until the coffee break.

It doesn't take too long for John to find out that basically everyone in town had loved the deceased founder of the factory – he'd been nice to everyone, paid generously and basically employed half the town's population.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but will the factory be closed down? With him dead, I mean," John asks, not even having to fake worry – most of the workers here have families to care for. They can't risk losing their jobs.

"Oh, it'll be alright – the management is already looking for possible successors," Michael explains and John files that information away for later – maybe the murder has been planned to make room for a new boss?

"It's not very-" Michael starts then, but interrupts himself mid-sentence to glare out of the window. "Oh, those goddamn fags-"

Taken aback, John stares at his suddenly angry co-worker – he'd never thought Michael would be homophobic, seeing as he is generally a very calm man. Then, the older man seems to notice John's look and understanding dawns on his face.

"Oh, John, I'm sorry- it's really not what you think. Look on the windowsill, there-"

Still wary, John leans out of the window a bit and then he feels the urge to face-palm. Into a brick wall.

Dozens of cigarette fags are littering the small ledge and Michael stares at them in disgust.

"It's the guys on the floor above us – they always smoke out of the window and then drop their fags down here." He grins at John. "I'm really no homophobe- would be quite weird, seeing as my son's gay and all." He winks. "No worries, you're definitely safe here, mate."

John, still relieved at the explanation, doesn't realize what Michael's implying, but then he actually understands the meanings of the last statement and quirks an eyebrow. "I'm… safe?"

"Oh, with your partner, I mean." Michael cocks his head. "Sorry, but Bernie, the keeper of the inn you're staying at is a bit of a chatterbox. You and your, and I'm quoting 'tall, pale, handsome beau' – Bernie's half French, you know, but he's alright – make quite the cute couple, he said."

"I'm, uh- we're not-"

The bell indicating the end of the break interrupts John and with a knowing smirk, Michael ushers him back to his machine, where he is left alone. With his thoughts. (Which mainly are 'Did Sherlock hear?', 'What does he think?' and 'Beau actually really matches Sherlock well.')

X

So people think they are a couple. Again. And John has corrected them. Again.

Which affirms Sherlock's belief that he can never tell John that he feels different around him. As if the 'best friend' term doesn't fit anymore. It's different, and… more.

Is this how love feels like? Like you can't stand to be apart from the other? Like you want to know about their every step, want to know if and what they think of you? Like you cannot stand to see them unhappy? Like you care more about the other person than yourself?

But Sherlock can't afford to think like that, now, can he? He needs to be the most important person, because he's the smartest. If he starts concentrating more on others, it would not be beneficial for the Work.

Except… "You are part of The Work." He's said so himself, to John.

And he simply cannot work efficiently without John anymore. He knows. From the time he's been away. Without John, things are complicated.

He needs the common approaches of thinking, needs the tea, and the 'not-good's and the loyalty and… and the affection. He needs John in his life to tell him he is amazing, to tell him he is wrong (although he, technically, never is, of course) and he needs John to make him eat and be grumpy at him for composing in the middle of the night.

He needs John by his side, more than- more than he needs the distractions of a case. Because as long as John is there, he doesn't get bored. Not bored-bored. Not _destructively_ bored. (Granted, the games of 'I need some, get me some' are fun, and provide a nice distraction, but Sherlock honestly doesn't need that sort of distraction as long as John's around.)

Whatever this is – he doesn't know, yet, needs to find out, has never been good with naming his own feelings – it has… changed his priorities.

His eyes shoot open, and then he scrambles to get to his bucket list.

_Forget who you are and what your priorities are._

He hasn't forgotten who he is – no, he is still Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective – but the wonderful thing is that John will never, ever expect him to change. He doesn't need to forget who he is. His _priorities _have changed, though.

It's not _The Work_ anymore. It's _JohnAndTheWork_. With emphasis on the John-part.

_And how you think a person should be._

Well, he knows he should stay away. Caring is not an advantage, after all. He knows that John, being his heart, is his greatest weakness. Makes him vulnerable. (Who carries his heart outside his body, after all?!)

Except it doesn't, because his heart is strong, and will forever be loyal to him. The Brain and The Heart. Connected. Always. Never separate.

He crosses off the 15th point and makes a mental mark to keep exploring these thoughts some more. Even if he will never be able to tell John, because that might cross the subtle line of friendship (which he's not entirely sure where it's drawn, and probably oversteps it at least thrice a day) he still will have to analyse his feelings completely. For his own sake.

X

Despite his unwillingness to actually deal with his body – just transport, really – Sherlock obviously knows it. It's his body, after all. He knows how it reacts, and how to entice reaction.

He also knows how to do this to others. It can be useful when he wants to attract others so they're more cooperative (Molly) or, say, get cocaine by pushing the right buttons with a dealer (which, technically, had been less of pushing buttons, much less anything else, but more of… bowing him in his shabby one-room-flat).

So, he knows about his body, other people's bodies and sex. Not-so-inexperienced Sherlock Holmes.

It's just that he was never really interested in any of the three aforementioned things before. Morning wood is a technically he has to accept (not like, though), and an orgasm silences his brain for a split-second, but it's messy and generally not too recreational. A duty, rather than a joy.

But lately… lately Sherlock _remembers_ his dreams, the dreams that make him wake up hard, and for the first time in his life, he wonders if getting off with someone else (John) might be worth trying.

He wonders how it would feel – to have someone else touch him, not out of necessity (to tend to wounds, to force him to eat, to pull him down so he doesn't get shot) but because of… want. Desire. That's the word.

He also wonders about kissing. He's never really considered it before (putting body part on body part – what's the difference between hands and lips? – true, only by being extremely close together (which more or less is necessary to kiss) humans can smell the pheromones of each other. So that's the science part of it. But Sherlock _has not felt the need_ to smell someone else's pheromones before) and it's not been spectacularly spectacular with Irene. Sherlock supposes she has what others would call _expertise_, but it hasn't done anything for him.

A blow-job also seems worth considering. If it's enough to pay for cocaine, there as to be something about it he doesn't understand.

Suction applied to the erect penis feels good – it's logical. Sherlock doesn't know from experience, but it's basic understanding of male genitalia.

But the new thing (another new thing) is that he wants to feel it, to find out, to have proof. And he wants it with someone in particular. (John).

Which is the whole crux of the matter. Sherlock's sexuality has awakened from a life-long dormant spell and it's all centered around one person. (John.) John.

X

It takes Sherlock half an hour (something he's not proud of and will never admit) to realize that the bubbly feeling in his stomach is arousal.

He interrupts his musings about the case to investigate that personal thing further and realizes that it has most likely started when John has walked in the door.

Deliciously sweaty and grimy.

Which, in itself, should not be delicious, how Sherlock very well knows, but when it comes to John the rules are (as so very often) subject to change. Of course Sherlock has said nothing when John disappeared into the bathroom, and has reemerged shortly later, towel slung around his waist and chest still wet, with droplets of water running down and disappearing below his navel.

Is is rare to see him like this, but since they aren't at home he doesn't have the terrycloth to hide beneath. (Sherlock makes a mark to get rid of it once they're back in London. For science.)

Which brings Sherlock back to where he is now – aroused, on the sofa, watching – with completely scientific interest (except he's got a hard on which is not quite so scientific) - how John grabs some clothes to hide Captain Watson under a cable-knit layer of Doctor Watson.

Then John fills him in on the parts he wasn't able to hear and he tells John about his day (had a look around town; apparently the most gossip can be heard at the market on Friday, so he needs to go there). John is completely obvious to the interesting shift in Sherlock's attention – well, at least the shift of attention in some of his body parts.

Sherlock makes another mental note to deal with it later in more detail (which, yes, most likely means having a wank –it's all for science.) (And John.)

X

On Friday – John's been working at the factory for five days now – Sherlock visits the market and hears some interesting rumours.

Apparently the victim had an affair with the son of one of the workers. Going to check on his alibi, maybe it was the son instead of one of the staff. Kingsley's wife could also be suspect. –SH

A few minutes later, he hears John's voice murmur: "I'll ask around a bit. It's got to be Michael's son. Maybe he knows something."

Content, Sherlock sets on finding out where the boy – still a boy, barely 18 – lives, but when he finally gets there, it turns out that he has gone on a weekend trip.

Annoyed, Sherlock talks to the mother for a bit, but she is rather useless and so he goes back to their room at the inn to go through everything he knows in peace.

However, the constant noise of the speaker that is connected to John's earpiece makes it hard to think. With a groan, he buries his head under a pillow and closes his eyes, thoughts already connecting in his mind, drawing connections, fitting together, dissolving again. The puzzle isn't that complicated, really, and the snippets of gossip, the tid-bits of information John has gained – they all make a perfect net in his mind. There is just something he hasn't taken into account, something is nagging at the edges, something –

Groaning again, he throws the pillow across the room and stares around. It has gone dark while he has been thinking and the room is severely lacking the thing Sherlock expects to see. John.

His eyes fall on the speaker that's still cackling and transmitting the sounds of the factory into the room.

And then it dawns on him.

"Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid!"

He grabs his coat and bangs the door shut, skipping down the stairs at a rapid pace.

There was no silence when John was supposed to be on break. Which means John hasn't been on break. Which means someone has prevented him from doing so. Also, from coming home.

X

"I think whoever said that _only physical work is real work_ lied," John groans and gets ready to lift yet another heavy chunk of metal onto a skid. "I'd be happy with some not-real work."

(He doesn't really mind so much, but it's part of his disguise and… okay, maybe he's just a bit done with lifting metal all day.)

"You'll get used to it," is all Michael says, smirking, and John laughs humourless.

"So, how do you like the town, by the way?" the bald metal worker asks, and John sees the opportunity to find out a bit more about what Sherlock texted him earlier.

"Oh it's nice here. A lot of gossip going on, though. But I s'pose that's normal in smaller towns…"

"Ha, of course. What'd you hear? Not the story about Bernie and the cow? Because people make fun of him because he's half-French but as I said, he's a nice bloke."

"Uh, no, something about Mr. Kingsley having an affair with, well… a young man…"

Michael is silent for a moment, and when John looks up, his face is hard.

"It's awful what people say about the deceased. It's really not good to speak about them like that."

John quickly backs off a bit. "Of course, yes. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to gossip about him, really."

All he gets as a reply is a grunt and John decides that he'll prod some more later, when Michael's calmed down a bit. And then something heavy hits the back of his head and everything goes black instantly.

* * *

_**EDIT: Thanks for the kissy-sciency-stuff, Tabby! Better? ;)**_

_Oh and Molly is _actually_ dating some bloke. All I wanted to make sure was that he looks quite a bit like Sherlock, because she has a type :) I don't personally believe in Molly/Irene. Irene's just a big old flirt :)_


	16. 16 Better than you

_Again, this might trigger some of you because it has some gore-ish things in it, and mentions of death and such, so... please be careful!_

* * *

**16. Think you know yourself until you meet someone better than you**

_(Now)_

When John blinks his eyes open, he can't suppress a groan. His head hurts incredibly and he feels something hot and gooey trickling down his neck, soaking into the white t-shirt, which is already glued to his body. He tries to move but realizes he's tied to something with binders, arms and legs spread like an X.

Slowly, everything comes back to him – Sherlock's text, the conversation with Michael – and then big black nothing. He has obviously been knocked out. _Michael._

In a moment of clarity, John remembers his earpiece, but he can't feel it anymore – it must've fallen out before, or Michael took it. Either way, John has no chance of warning Sherlock. (Or calling for help, but that doesn't come to his mind until much later. His priorities have always been and will always be Sherlock.) (Besides, it's not like he knows where he is, anyway.) (Starring in the final scene of Monty Python's Life of Brian, maybe.)

A motion to his right makes him concentrate (as best as one can when having been coshed), though, and the lights flicker on and, blinking into the sudden brightness, the silhouette of Michael comes into John's vision.

"You- you did it, didn't you? You killed Mr. Kingsley." John says (actually, it's more of a mix between a groan and a cough), more because he doesn't know what else to do than because he needs reassurance. It's pretty clear, after all.

"I had to. He was… he was assaulting Brad. What else was I supposed to do? He's only a kid! That's rape!"

"Your son's 18, Michael! No matter if you like it or not, he can do what he wants and with whom he wants," John tries to reason, but the dizziness makes it hard to think and he feels like he needs to throw up.

"He's my _son_!" Michael argues back, and from the vacant, cold look in his eyes, John realizes that there's no point in reasoning here.

"You can't just keep me here, though. You have to let me go." He hopes he doesn't sound like he's pleading. Although he probably does.

"I want to, really, John. You're a nice bloke. But… you're going to tell the police and they'll arrest me. I can't let that happen – my family, they need me!"

"Michael, you can't be serious. My, uh, boyfriend will miss me. He's gonna call the police if I don't come home."

"As I said, John, I'm really sorry. But the police won't find you. I'll do it the same as I handled Mr. Kingsley,but this time, I'll take care of the remains afterwards."

John is definitely not feeling particularly fit or lucid, but surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) the prospect of being murdered and minced and chopped to pieces by a giant machine is a concept that's burning into his mind quite clearly.

Still muttering under his breath that's he's sorry, Michael sets to type commands into a computer and suddenly, with a lot of noise that makes John want to hold his head except he's still bound, the machine (_fucking hell_, he's tied into a machine that's about to gut him, like in some sort of sick horror film) comes to life around him, with drills and die-cutters whirring loudly.

So, instead of coolant that he watched splatter against the laminated safety glass window over the last few days, now his blood and organs will splatter against it. _Peachy._

He doesn't have the time to sort out his last thoughts, or realize he's going to die alone, with Sherlock having no clue what happened, though, because something happens that delays his death a bit - the sound of an alarm disturbs Michael in his work and he glances to John before mumbling "right back" (as if John's going to miss his murderer-to-be) and disappears. Almost instantly, a new shadow is hovering over John and long fingers prod at him gently. Through the blur in his mind and vision, John does his best to focus and slowly zooms in on silver eyes looking at him worriedly.

Worry? John tries to say "That's new for you, Sherlock" but all he manages is a creaky "… Sherlock."

"Yes, John. Sound observation. Now, hold still, I'm going to cut your hands free."

There's a pinching pain on his left wrist and then his hand falls free. While the detective works on the other hand, John can't help but rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, too dizzy and exhausted and in pain to keep it up himself.

And then he sees Michael charging, and tries to warn his unassuming friend who's still busy with his other hand, but all he manages is a gurgle and his free hand presses against Sherlock's face, trying to make him turn around.

It doesn't work, though, and the last image John sees is Sherlock's face with wide eyes and his own bloody hand-print on Sherlock's cheek, before the hit detective falls like a tree from the blow on the back of his head and buries John beneath him, sending him into darkness, too.

X

He regains consciousness and (quite normal after being knocked out) feels disoriented for a moment. Then a few things happen.

A numbing pain, coming from the back of his head, makes him gasp for breath and whimper, then the feeling of cold water seeping into his trousers makes him grimace and then something warm moves against his back and a voice he's only too happy to hear asks: "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

He wants to say 'No, John, obviously I'm not because a murderer just knocked me out while I failed to rescue you'. All the manages, though, is a rough "John!". Very undignified.

He tries to move, then, because his butt is freezing from the cold water (and he wants the disgracing feeling of having wet himself to stop) but both, he and John, hiss in pain and he realizes they're tied together, hands on their backs, back to back.

And then the panic settles in.

The same panic as before, when John was utterly lifeless, hanging inside the machine like a grotesque Jesus figure. Emotions have taken over then, and instead of clearing the area, watching out for John's attacker, he had blindly rushed to lifeless, bloody, beaten John. (He wasn't sure how madness felt before, but know he knows and it's terrible and the sheer memory of the feeling makes him panic again because if he goes mad, everything is lost.)

For a moment, one irrational moment, he'd feared he was too late, and it was in this moment that he finally understood one thing. He could not live without John Watson, and he would never try it.

(John is so strong, so much stronger than he could ever be, so much stronger than he has imagined, because John had lived, without him, and he, Sherlock, went mad already just thinking of that possibility.)

"Sherlock – Sherlock, calm down!"

Warm, not-dead John calls out and the voice is enough to briefly stop Sherlock's struggle. "That's it. Deep breaths, come on, in… and out."

Sherlock does as he's asked – told – by Captain Watson, and when he's stopped hyperventilating (which seems ridiculous now and the shame burns on his face in the darkness because it's so out of character and he never panics not even when Mrs. Hudson is being beaten by enormous Americans he never panics he never never does), Doctor Watson says: "Try not to move your hands anymore, you almost slit your wrists."

Oh, yes. Now there's pain, aching, burning in his wrists and the rational part of his brain tells him the binders have cut deep enough to draw blood.

And finally best-friend-John says: "I'm glad you're here. Although we're going to die."

There are many things Sherlock should say, but he settles for "How?"

"Can't you feel it? The level of the coolant we're sitting in is rising. We're going to drown."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, the fact that we're bound and sitting in a machine with rising water level kind of gives it away," John remarks. Then, worry creeps in his voice. "Since when do you ask so many questions?"

(So many? Two, Sherlock wants to say.)

"Tell me the chemical formula of… uh, barium permanganate."

"Ba(MnO4)2 . It's not like you can look it up, though. I could be lying."

John snorts, and it's a sound so normal, casual, and so mis-matching the situation that Sherlock starts to feel better. John hasn't lost his John-ness then.

"The fact that you said you could be lying and not that you could be wrong tells me you're okay. Oh, and I think I can un-tie us – wait a moment-"

There's grunting and panting and cursing in the darkness and then John has worked some magic (Sherlock actually forgets to ask!) and then two warm (and sticky with blood, but Sherlock isn't going to complain) hands are prodding at his raw wrists and he whimpers again, but then he can move his arms and his body and then he's still sitting in the cold coolant (of course it's cold, it's coolant, what else would it be-) that reaches up to his navel now, but John's eyes glisten in the almost-darkness.

Sherlock can make out tiny streams of blood covering John's face and he looks dead and that's-

"Calm down, Sherlock. Please."

An arm (John's arm) winds itself around his shoulders and pulls him in and now he's resting against John (hears a heart beat – not dead – feels warm breath – not dead – smells blood and sweat and tea – not dead) and he can concentrate, for the first time.

It's no good, though, because he sees that John is right – there's no way out (air-sealed doors), there's nothing they could use to free themselves (metal pieces usually have no need to break out of the machines they're put into, so of course there's no handle or whatever on the inside of the machine) and the waterline is rising constantly (up to their armpits, at the moment). They are going to die.

He realizes he actually fears dying.

He wasn't afraid, not really, before the Fall. He outwitted Moriarty, Moriarty outwitted him – and then he outwitted Moriarty again, predicted the end, and fell. He _knew_ how it was going to end. However, he had the Homeless Network. And Molly. (And Mycroft, urgh)

You can stage a fall to death.

You can't stage drowning, because once you inhale water, you're done. No trick involved.

He feels that he's getting worked up again and so he decides to think of something else – at least he has regained that control over himself again.

One look at John, who's staring into the darkness silently, still holding him close (does he notice? Is this comfort?), settles the decision he's just made.

He will not tell John about his feelings. He will die with his best friend at his side, in the knowledge that they were more than anyone could see.

X

John, looking down at the vulnerable genius nestled against him, comes to the same decision.

X

The coolant is now reaching up to John's chin and he lets go of Sherlock, who misses the comfort of the touch immediately (something he never thought he would think but he can blame it on the concussion, on dying, on going mad). They're standing, now, half-crouched.

Sherlock gives them 15 more minutes. At most.

"I suppose drowning is worse than falling," he says.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" John asks, as his best friend.

"Don't be." John says, as Captain Watson.

"It will be over fast," John lies, as Doctor Watson. (Of course it's a lie, but Sherlock doesn't feel like pointing it out. You don't do that with Doctor-lies. He's learned that.)

"_I_ suppose it's better than being screwed to death. Would have made an awful headstone, don't you think?" John jokes.

Sherlock smiles into the darkness. "Agreed."

Then they're silent again, and the water level constantly rises and they do nothing, except that somehow, their hands find each other and in their fighting to stay awake, to live until the very last minute, this connection anchors them in reality.

"I swore myself, the night you came back, that I wouldn't do this again. I wouldn't outlive you again." John's voice is quiet now, and Sherlock feels calm. He supposes that he might as well say it now. (Well, not _it_, but another it.)

"For what it's worth – I didn't plan on dying again. Not alone, anyway."

And okay, maybe that's a bit creepy, but John smiles weakly, knowing what Sherlock means.

"Good. Because I'm coming with you this time."

Sherlock only hesitates a moment before he mirrors the smile. "Good. I'd like that."

And then the level of the coolant rises over their heads and the one thing Sherlock can still feel in the cold darkness is John's hands entwined with his.

X

His last thought, oddly enough, is that he didn't finish the bucket list, which kind of lost its purpose by that.

But he did one last thing – he finished the 16th point. '_Think you know yourself until you meet someone better than you.'_ He met someone better.

He met John Watson.

John's hand in his, he closes his eyes and dies for the second time.

X

"GO GO GO, FIND THEM! SPREAD OUT, COME ON, GET GOING!"

Greg races through the factory, Sherlock's text message seared into his mind and then one of his officers calls out for help and they're levering out the door of a gigantic machine and suddenly a gazillion liters of water rush out, soaking everyone close and _with_ the water, two bodies are being flushed out.

Coughing, spluttering bodies.

Sherlock and John.

Very much alive.

"Oh thank God you're alive!" Greg calls out and kneels down next to them, not caring about being drenched to the bone. He hears Mycroft's steps coming closer (he's here, too, because he sent his brother and John out here, and he feels responsible even if he doesn't say so and he's worried. Constantly.) but concentrates on his friends on the ground.

The answer to his exclamation comes between ragged, greedy inhales of breath but it comes in unison. "Sound observation."

And then John doubles over and vomits right in front of Mycroft's shoes.

X

Michael is being arrested shortly later, John and Sherlock are being treated by an ambulance but on Sherlock's insistence on having a live-in doctor (John belatedly realizes he means him – blame it on his concussion) they're both taken back to London the same night.

Solving the case (and surviving) was great, yes, but Sherlock will always and forever cherish the look on Mycroft's face after John emptied his stomach in front of him. (He calls it "Best night ever!" and earns a quirked eyebrow from John, because they almost died and that's probably not his definition of 'best night ever').

For a moment, the urge to kiss John is there, so overbearing that Sherlock digs his fingers into his chair and wills it down, and stares at the ceiling, where John's room is. He asks: "Is this love?"

Of course the flat stays silent, and he grabs his phone to call the one person he can think of that is familiar with his situation. He doesn't like it one bit, not at all (eating nails would be more pleasant actually), but special situations require special measures.

He picks up after the third ring. "Yes?"

"I need your… assistance, brother."


	17. 18 Date

**18. Date someone who says "I love you" first**

_(Now)_

**Leaving London soon, let's have dinner.**

"I'm going to Angelo's tonight," Sherlock announces at the empty flat, already replying to Irene, and he cringes at his hoarse voice. The effects of swallowing coolant are rather persistent – his voice, after three days, is still rough. Well, John has it worse, with his numerous cuts, bruises and the returned limp.

(Granted, his own back of the head is tender, too, and his wrists occasionally bleed through the bandages) – where is John? Not here. Oh well, Sherlock tried to tell him where he's going – he can't be blamed if John's not here to hear. (And he can't be bothered to write a note, really.)

X

**Know the Italian restaurant at Northumberland Street? Working near there, want to meet up for dinner? – Greg**

John briefly wonders – they usually meet up for a pint, not actual food – but then his stomach declares its opinion loudly (in the middle of a Tesco – one of the teenagers filling the shelves grabs hold of a box full of crisps quickly as if he fears John will tear them open to satisfy his hunger) and he quickly texts back an affirmative, intent on just dropping off the food at the flat and going to see Greg. He could bring food back for Sherlock, too. After all they're both still recovering from not-dying and being the co-stars in a bondage-horror-film.

However, when he's back at 221B, Sherlock's nowhere to be found, and so John just shrugs and pins a note to the vacuum-packed eyeballs in the fridge, where Sherlock is most likely to see it.

X

Due to the nasty rain, everyone looks like extras from "The Mummy", all huddled close and wrapped in jackets zipped up to their noses (which also makes it interestingly difficult to actually find the people you want to find). John happily slides into a booth, opposite Greg, when he's finally reached the sanctuary dryness that is Angelo's.

"Nasty weather," Greg points out with a chuckle and John remarks: "Not so different from drowning in coolant."

"Well, you would know."

For a while, they simply chit-chat about trivial things – the weather, sports, films, books (shortly, anything their respective Holmeses don't talk about) and it's oddly relaxing (because no matter what Sherlock thinks, there are only so many things one can find interesting about testicles, even as a doctor and/or a man). However, at some point, Greg looks up, face rather serious, and asks: "Seriously, though, how are you dealing with everything? It was pretty close this time."

"Not the first time," John waves him off.

Afghanistan. The crazy Chinese circus lady. The pool. The sewers (when they had been staking out a human trafficking ring and John accidentally got caught. Obviously Sherlock had rescued him, though.) ('Ah, I've been dashing, daring-" he'd announced after he'd competently knocked out five guards, but John simply replied "If you add courageous and caring, I'll call you gummi bear from now on" because after lying in the dirt for nine hours he had no interest in ego-stroking whatsoever)

"Yeah, but was it different – with Sherlock around, I mean?" Greg looks at him interested, but they're interrupted by his phone ringing. He shoots John an apologetic look before answering. "Yes? Yes. _Yes._ Will do. Alright. See you later." He ends the call and tells John: "Remind me to pick up Mycroft's order before I leave."

John nods – and then realizes something.

There _was_ something different about dying this time, Greg's right – having Sherlock there made it different. He could've _told_ him, there in the dark machine, but he didn't and they were going to die as not-quite-best-friends-but-more and John would've taken all of his feelings to his grave. Without having told a single person (let alone Sherlock).

But Greg – he would understand. He knows Sherlock, the Holmes brothers, knows how John feels (at least that's what John suspects, with the DI dating _– dating –_ Mycroft and all).

And so he takes a deep breath and says: "Listen, mate, I think I need to tell you something."

X

Irene is beautiful as always, but her light kiss on his cheek doesn't give him wings like it once did. It's pleasant, and tolerable. Nothing more.

They're having dinner (well, Irene is having pizza and Sherlock tries to sneak away food because he has decided that she has earned the honour of being part of the selected group of people he does that with (the others being John and Mrs. Hudson)) but he hasn't counted on two things – the un-sneakability of pizza and Irene's non-existent tolerance for him stealing her food. (He's glad she didn't bring her riding crop.)

He is not paying much attention to the other guests in the restaurant until Irene falls silent just when a familiar ringtone sounds through the room. Lestrade.

Irene notices how Sherlock's attention shifts and while he is still wondering with whom the DI is having dinner (not Mycroft not Mycroft not Mycroft), he's saying something to his opponent – talking about Mycroft, so at least the fat git isn't here – and then another familiar voice speaks up.

"That sounds like Doctor Watson," Irene remarks with a smirk and Sherlock shushes her, trying to concentrate on his flat-mates words. He's missed a bit, but John and Lestrade are clearly talking about him.

(Which, to be fair, is quite an interesting topic.)

"-guess, what I'm trying to say is that I should've told him that I like him." Sherlock can almost see the embarrassed face John makes.

"You mean, you _like_-like him?" Lestrade suggests, smirk evident in his voice. "Man, I think I just won the pool."

"Don't be- the pool?! You have a pool going on?... Of course you have." John says, sounding defeated.

"Hey, for what it's worth – most of the Yarders think you're cute together."

"Yes because obviously I'm aiming for _cute_. And besides, we're not- there's no "together". I mean, I can't… you know how he thinks about relationships and stuff – if I told him that I'm feeling… more than is strictly within the boundaries of the term 'friends', he's probably- I don't know, I have _no idea_ what he'd do."

Lestrade makes a non-committal sound and glasses are being lifted and sat down again, before he says: "You almost sound like him… Look, the way I see it, you have two options – telling, and not-telling."

"You're a bloody fortune cookie, aren't you?" John mumbles drily.

"- just trying to help. Anyways, from my experience, Holmeses are spectacularly ignorant-"

(Sherlock decides to be insulted later.)

"-but not cruel. If you really love him-"

Okay, Sherlock definitely has a hard time comprehending what he's overhearing and after that particular word – four letters, incredibly destructive if intended, able to bring down empires and criminals (the living proof sitting across Sherlock in a tight red dress, sipping wine) – he's probably zoomed out, at least from the look Irene is giving him.

"Well, that's _interesting_, isn't it?"

He narrows his eyes and does the one thing that's always reliable. Deducing.

"You planned this."

She just grins, not trying to hide it. "Guilty."

"Why?"

Her face changes, from playful, amused, to sincere: "Because you need this." And then she's smirking again, and empties her glass. "Right, I think we should swap dates, _Sherlock."_

She says his name when she's getting up and passing him, and it's loud enough to silence the ongoing conversation in the booth behind him. In the following silence (that is not as dramatically as it sounds to Sherlock and John, since everyone else is unassuming and carrying on as before) Sherlock forces himself to turn around, and he meets the blue eyes of his best friend. They stare at each other for seconds (an eternity) and then Greg gets up and says: "Sorry, mate – there's a pool to win," and then he and Irene walk away together.

Finally, John breaks their gaze (Sherlock panics, and doesn't know why (except he does) and then it's alright because John is coming over to his booth, carrying his pint) and sits down across him.

Angelo wordlessly appears, with a candle, and John wordlessly tolerates it.

X

"So we're on a date now."

"Yes. I mean, it's still technically your date with Miss Adler…"

"Ah, yes. She seems to be under the impression, though, that I'd rather spend this date with you."

"Are you?"

Sherlock only hesitates a split-second, his eyes narrowing down the same way like they do when he's deducing. Then he says: "Yes."

John smiles, a small smile, which Sherlock mirrors, but neither of the men speak up again for a while. Sherlock's eyes rest on John, taking in every miniscule movement, and John (overly aware of what Sherlock is doing) tries to figure out what to say next. Not that there's much left to say, obviously.

Finally, when the tension becomes too much, he sighs and catches Sherlock's eyes.

"Look, I… you heard everything, right?"

A cautious, short nod answers his question.

"Wow… okay. Well, uh, I just want you to know that… that this doesn't have to be… awkward." (Except is already is.)

"Except it already is," Sherlock says, keeping his tone light.

That tells John enough of how unsettling and complicated this whole situation for Sherlock is.

"Yes, well, - I can't exactly take my words back and I… I don't want to, because finally having them out actually feels kind of good-" John takes a deep breath and runs his fingers over his glass absentmindedly, "-but… I can understand if you don't – if you're bothered by this." 'This' being feelings. Entirely very-gay feelings. "If you want to, we can just go back to what we were before. You just need to say so."

X

It's possible that up until that moment, Sherlock has not been sure of his feelings. There are many things he cannot name, even now. But with these few words, John has allowed him a way out, a way to just go back to the way they were. A way to… to delete and carry on normally.

And Sherlock _can_ name two feelings clearly now. Thankfulness. Admiration.

There's only one answer to John's offer.

"We should go home."

X

[Love-Squad Group Chat]

**Mr. Holmes asks if everything is going according to plan. – A**

**They are talking. Miss Adler, Angelo and I are watching them from the kitchen. – GL**

**This is so nice for Sherlock. I hope it goes well. – Molly**

[…]

**They are getting up. Someone should call Mrs. Hudson and tell her to stay inside when they come home. – GL**

**I'll make arrangements. – A**

**How are they looking? Are they holding hands? :) - Molly**

**Sort of… normal? – GL**

**CCTV is in position. - A**

**Oh and Mr. Holmes asks to remind you of the pasta. – A**

X

John follows, silently. He follows, the way he always does, but it's not quite as comfortable a silence as usually. Sherlock knows John still waits for an answer, a decision. But first he needed to get away from the watchful eyes of Angelo (and Irene and Lestrade in the kitchen – did they actually think he wouldn't notice them sneaking back in? There's something going on, they're involved in some sort of… group – he will have to investigate-) and of course Mycroft and his spies (and Lestrade) and cameras. (Alright, there's always CCTV, but at least he won't have audio material.)

"How long has this been going on?" he finally asks and John stiffens, but answers truthfully: "Pretty much since the Fall."

_(His therapist is suspecting a deeper bond between you, but he won't talk to her.)_

After a moment, John adds: "I couldn't quite put it in words back then, but I thought about it a lot."

"I did, too," Sherlock tells him. "Think, I mean." Okay, since when does he make sentences like that?!

John smirks, and Sherlock feels better when he does. "Isn't that something you always do?"

"Not so much about us. I mean me. You. People."

"Are you sure you're not drugged again?" John then asks and although he does it to lighten the mood (and obviously because he doesn't trust the Woman) Sherlock isn't sure. Because the queasiness, the fidgetiness seem symptoms fit for that. He concentrates on reality. What's real?

London. Concrete under his feet. Light. Darkness. Damp streets. No rain. A bit of the night sky. Light pollution. Tourists. Locals. The Homeless. John. (Still golden, in the night, although Afghanistan days are long gone, as is the last warm ray of sunlight.)

He needs to know. "Is this love, John?"

X

_(Prior)_

"Don't think I would call if I had other options."

"Always glad to be of help," Mycroft replies sarcastically.

"I don't need help."

"Assistance."

Sherlock snorts, then continues. "Do you love Lestrade?"

"I don't see how this is any of your business. Surely that's not the reason for why you called."

" 'Caring is not an advantage' – I'm quoting you here, once. Why did you decide against your own wisdom all of the sudden?"

"I did not, brother dear. I still believe it not to be an advantage, but it is also no disadvantage."

"Cryptic doesn't suit you, Mycroft."

"Obvious doesn't suit _you_. You very well know how strong a bond of… affection can be, to what it can drive people. Need I remind you of Miss Adler? Well, now imagine this bond _between_ two people, _reciprocated_. Imagine the lengths they would go for each other."

"It makes people vulnerable," Sherlock replies flatly (in his mind, however, everything spins, because it's so much to consider – without a doubt, though, he is right, because such a bond does make people vulnerable (makes them go mad at the sight of lifeless J-))

"It is worth it. And you know that."

Sherlock can practically see Mycroft grinning like a shark, and so he abruptly shuts off his phone, and goes to think.

X

_(Now)_

He doesn't dare to ask: "Do you love me, John?" because it looks like it – evidence would suggest so – but he's not an expert.

But this is John – he always understands. And while they still stroll next to each other, John says: "If I told you I loved you – if I did that, what… what would you reply?"

And Sherlock's look says it, says everything. Speaks of the turmoil inside his head, inside his heart. But hearing the words nevertheless makes John feel like he's drowning in ice water (at least that's how he looks like to Sherlock and he has an exclusive idea how John looks when he's in that situation, after all).

"I don't know."

X

To be fair, that's the sweetest and at the same time saddest way possible Sherlock could've rejected him, John thinks, and is fully prepared to go back to the best-friends-thing (haha because that's so easy) but then Sherlock stops and John sees they're in front of 221B – well not exactly. They're on the pavement under the streetlight – the same streetlight Sherlock stood under and stared up to John in the flat the day he came back from the dead – and he asks, almost shyly (which basically sounds like when he knows he wants something but isn't sure whether it's good or not-good): "Would you consider investigate these matters further by going on another date?"

And then there's a lot of things racing through John's mind (like 'Holy shit, Sherlock, you need to talk normal!' and "Wait what?!' and 'Did he just-?' and 'Oh my God, he did-!') and he says: "God, yes!"

Sherlock smiles (the genuine smile) and they stare at each other in silence before they simultaneously clear their throats and say: "Right, we should-" "We probably should-"

It's enough to break the spell and they laugh before Sherlock guides a hand to John's back and gently shoves him into motion again. As quietly as possible, Sherlock opens the door and they make their way upstairs and John thinks about retreating to his bedroom (because there's a whole lot of things he needs to think about and Sherlock probably needs time and space, too) but… this might be his only chance – true, Sherlock agreed on (proposed!) a second date, but it could always be that it turns out he doesn't want to… date, or be in a relationship, and damn it but John is not going to let that happen without one kiss. He will let it happen if it has to, be wants to be selfish once. And so he lightly grabs hold of Sherlock's arm (not trapping him, never trapping him, because he could never force himself onto Sherlock!) and closes the distance between the surprised detective and himself.

For a ridiculous second, Sherlock seems unsure of what to do and stands ramrod-straight, and only his arms do a weird half-flail, which causes John to grin into the kiss and then a low moan escapes Sherlock's throat (a sound John has only heard once before, when he forced Sherlock to eat toast with honey and learned that Sherlock really really loves honey). Frankly, the sound does things to John, and the comparison to honey makes him grin even more.

Sherlock's lips move against his, then, and it takes a moment for John to realize the detective speaks to him ('Stop grinning!') and John mumbles back ('Shut up!') and kisses him harder and finally, finally Sherlock reciprocates and bloody hell, for someone who's never done that before he's doing bloody amazing.

Sometime later, they break apart, and Sherlock looks at John as if he's a new murder victim and John looks at Sherlock as if he's, well, Sherlock, and then the detective breaks the silence and says: "We need to do this again, too."

X

John is long gone to sleep, but Sherlock is still awake.

Oddly enough, he can still feel his best friend (no, that doesn't suit them anymore – what are they? Boyfriends? A couple? Lovers? Partners?) on his lips and it's comforting, and lovely, and it puts him on a high like only drugs do.

His eyes fall on the bucket list.

So he was on a date, with John, and they kissed. But John didn't say that he loved him.

(He doesn't have to, because Sherlock sees it (at least he thinks he does) and it's obvious in every action, every word.)

Maybe John is never going to say it. Maybe he needs Sherlock to say it first, because he… because he's afraid to have his heart broken.

That would be not-good, because Sherlock doesn't want to hurt John, but at the same time, he is not sure if he can love someone, the way John wants to be loved.

He still has no answer to the question that's bothering him for half-an-eternity now. Is this love?

With determination, he picks up a pen and draws a line through point 18. Maybe he will say it at some point, and maybe John will, and maybe they won't date at all. But Sherlock can see it in John, and John seems to see _something_ in Sherlock.

And whatever they are, they will always be John-and-Sherlock.

* * *

_WE HAVE A COVER ART BY THE AMAZING **sasukeuzumaki001 (tumblr)** SO GO THERE AND SPREAD LOVE!_


	18. 20 Be loved

_Again, no worries, point 20 is supposed to come before 19._

* * *

**20. Be loved**

Despite the kiss, the date, the – _honey_ feeling that is John Watson, nothing has changed in the morning (although Sherlock feels like it should be different, like maybe the world should be brighter and more vibrant and all those other clichés people in love seem to experience. Does that mean he is not in love, because it's nothing like that?!)

John gets up, makes tea, man-handles Sherlock to some toast and raids the newspapers for cases (Actually, Sherlock does that himself, in the early morning hours, but he doesn't tell John because the doctor likes to contribute and besides, Sherlock usually doesn't bother with less interesting cases until John points them out). Shortly, despite the topsy-turvy, lifting-the-world-from-its-axis night, the morning after is incredibly _normal._

What. An. Abomination.

The genius walks on egg shells for hours, trying to figure out the protocol. Is he supposed to do something?

Frankly, kissing John again seems rather unpleasant (at last before personal hygiene measures have been taken – morning breath is to be considered, after all) so that's off the plan. Other ridiculously clichéd things like making breakfast are to be omitted, too - John has made it already and besides, Sherlock doesn't like to eat anyways, so why bother with something he doesn't like? – and getting flowers – as if. Also, it's late October. Not many flowers waiting to be picked in London in late October. And, for very different reasons, he will not set foot into a flower shop.

John, however, doesn't seem to share his 'something-should-be-different' feeling and because in the end Sherlock can't stand his… _ignorance_ about the matter any longer, he leaves the flat when John hits the bathroom.

X

He observes.

It's what he does best, after all.

(Because he can work with the physical, he really can. However, all he knows is about exchanging physical aspects of relationships for drugs, and since he doesn't want cocaine from John, that's not really a basis he can work on – the catchphrase being 'I'll blow you for some cocaine' – see the problem? Oh, he would do it do John, without doubt, and for nothing in return. It has never sounded appealing before, he was never interested before, but now it is; suddenly he wants to find out, with John.)

(But John is the traditional type of man – he'll want talking and things before the physical.)

He knows almost everyone considers him asexual, and maybe he is, or at least was before – he didn't have interest in any form of relationship, be it romantically or physical, before. However, even asexuality can be subject to change, and it has changed. An incredible change. That's not what unsettles Sherlock so vehemtly, though.

No, it's the fact that this really is an area where he has almost zero experience, or knowledge. There's a difference between acting a certain way (to smarm his way up to people, to get what he wants, to make it easier with suspects, or victims) and actually expressing what he thinks or feels. Or, like, even pointing down what he feels, to be honest.

So he observes couples. To learn.

X

They are everywhere. London is bursting with couples, although many people claim it's hard to find someone in the anonymity of the big city.

They come in all races, colours, combinations, and ages.

An old couple, woman and man, married to each other faithfully for over 50 years. They hold hands in the Tube, sitting next to each other, and he helps her stepping out of the wagon when they reach their destination.

A young couple, about 18 or 19. Full of life, vibrant in colourful clothes, tongue-wrestling, unashamed, against the wall of the Bakerloo line.

Two middle-aged women, exchanging glances, brushes of hands. They wear rings, but they are not married to each other. Yet, they've found in another what they didn't find in the men they married.

A male couple, with a young girl. They have been partners for years, adopted the girl, after a long struggle with the officials.

Sherlock sees so many different forms of love. Calm, reassuring. Open, vibrant, full of life and colour and emotion and energy. Secretive. Strengthening. Keeping people grounded.

X

He observes, and sees the shadow of love.

A young woman, who lives in an abusive relationship, but she has succumbed to her feelings and won't let go of her boyfriend. (He is reminded of Mrs. Hudson in a way, and he smiles at the memory of how they first met.)

A suffering couple, married unhappily for over 12 years, only staying together because of the kids.

A man who stays in a relationship with his girlfriend although he thinks she's out of his league and it's okay for her to treat him like crap.

Sherlock sees all this. Pain. Dishonesty. Sacrifice. Betrayal.

X

He still doesn't know what to do, and he hates not knowing. It's not something he can learn from a book, though, so he has to keep observing.

He observes acts of love as tiny things. A man buys coffee for his girlfriend. He knows her order and she smiles.

Flowers.

Chocolates.

A shared hobby, doing things together.

Attention.

He realizes it is all ridiculous and he can't do this.

X

His phone beeps, (this time it's actually his and not Molly's which keeps beeping all the time. Probably that boyfriend of hers. Although she _does_ look over _to him_ quite often so she's unsuccessfully trying to observe him which doesn't work at all), and when he picks it up, it's John.

**Just wanted to know whether you'd be home later or not. The hospital called, they asked if I could help out. –JW**

**I'm at the morgue. Might be late. – SH**

**And we're out of milk. – SH**

John doesn't sound different. Well, his _text _doesn't sound different. Sherlock still needs time, though, that's why he's at the morgue. Going through cold cases keeps his brain pleasantly entertained with a background buzz of nice, orderly murder while another part can work on what to do now. (And if John helps out at the Hospital, he won't be home until late, which gives Sherlock plenty of time in peace when Molly kicks him out.) (Okay, he could sneak in but that's not-good, he knows it.)

Yesterday, it has seemed very obvious. Never stop kissing John.

Now it seems like a childish thought and although the John-pheromones do _things_ to him, it can't have been enough to make him think like a babbling school girl. (Except it has.)

Well, he's been right about one thing yesterday. They need to do the kissing again. Definitely.

But he genuinely doesn't want to hurt John and if he thinks there is more when there isn't (which Sherlock is yet to determine) he will be hurt and Sherlock can't do that again.

Hypothetically, though, if there _was_ more and John _wasn't_ hurt, it would, quid pro quo, be good for John.

Would it be good for _him_, too, though?

In a world where no one likes you, where it's every man for himself, and before he had friends, he always cared only for himself.

He wouldn't be happy if John wanted to be... couple-y.

"Here's some coffee. Made any progress?"

John's voice startles him from his thoughts (not that he shows it) and he automatically rattles down some deductions he's made, all the while wondering how long it was since they texted (approximately 45 minutes since John had to get ready, come over and grab coffee) and why his doctor had decided to come over in the first place. Didn't he say something about hospital shifts?

"That's amazing, Sherlock! With that knowledge Greg can definitely arrest James Riley."

Oh, yes, he solved a case. Oddly, it doesn't give him the same satisfaction than usual...

Wow. John really has nice lips. He should probably-

The thought is so out of character, so highly unlikely everything he is, that Sherlock for a moment stops blinking.

He probably looks like a gigantic, curly haired chameleon, but there's no time to worry about how he looks to others – he needs to THINK. CONCENTRATE.

X

Despite the strange mixture of feelings John has ever since he went to bed (butterflies, raging kittens and one or two medium-sized dragons seem to fight the Battle of Middle Earth inside his guts) he does his best not to squeal upon seeing Sherlock in the morning.

First of all, squealing is very girlish. Second, he's a man in his 40s. Thirdly - John Hamish Watson does not squeal. (Outside. Inside, there's a hell lot if squealing going on).

Sherlock clearly hasn't slept all night and it dawns on John that the genius for all the brains he's got is still very much lost emotion-wise.

So not-squealing John Watson does what he does best (and brilliantly, as he was told by Sherlock after all) - he makes tea and keeps his usual routine. (With only imagining snogging Sherlock once or twice. (Or a hundred times.))

However, when he re-emerges from the bathroom, his pondering flat-mate slash new tongue-wrestling partner is gone, which only concerns him a bit. Then he seizes the opportunity to squeal.

Once. Quietly.

It's quite an embarrassing sound and he flushes before resolutely retrieving the gun from the desk drawer and starts cleaning it, to regain some masculinity.

(And yet another reason not to squeal? It's not British. The British don't squeal.)

X

Half a day later, he finds himself in Tesco, picking up milk and decides to let the hospital be hospital because he's not seen Sherlock all day and if he's being honest, he doesn't like that the detective is pondering cold cases instead of emotions. John really doesn't want to push him but if that's some sort of procrastination technique ( and let's be honest, if Sherlock gets to chose between dealing with his own feelings and deducing murders, the choice is obvious (and John loves him for it, he really does)) then he needs a gentle reminder of the - at time - more important things in life.

A coffee in his hands, he finds the object of many of his sleepless nights perched over case files, in the lab of the morgue.

His hair's the usual artfully styled mess (if he thinks John doesn't notice how much effort he puts into it he's wrong) and with the dark trousers and the purple shirt that's probably one size too small he's just the beautiful nutter John would follow into the depths of hell.

Six minutes and a whole monologue of deduction later John is content because he realizes that Sherlock is actually somewhere else with his mind (how he knows? For starters, Sherlock called Anderson and the rest of the Yarders 'idiots' only once and if he's too absent to insult them the appropriate amount of times, he's definitely busy someway different.)

He waits as patiently as possible, exchanging pleasantries with Molly (it's only much later that he suspects her connection with Greg, Irene and the others) until Sherlock suddenly sweeps everything but his coffee cup off the table and stares at it as if it has just spoken to him with the voice of Kermit the Frog.

The detective and the cup have a stare-off for several minutes, watched closely by John and Molly and then Sherlock's head shoots up and he directs wild eyes at John, bellowing: "We have been dating for several years!"

This time, someone squeals loudly (and it's Molly so it's okay even if she's British) but John only cocks an eyebrow. "So the newspapers have convinced you too?"

"This is serious, John!" Sherlock hisses, and his frantic look is enough to make John grin because it's not very serious at all, although Sherlock acts as if there's a national emergency that requires him to move in into one room with Mycroft or whatever.

"If we had been dating, I would have told you, I promise," John replies and tries to keep his amusement down because Sherlock looks like he's close to murdering him now.

"The signs are here!" the detective argues back (sounding like the priest of a sect announcing the apocalypse), and then he turns to Molly, who freezes midway, like a deer caught in headlights (she probably just wants to escape, but Sherlock's stare keeps her in place). "Molly, I take it your boyfriend buys you coffee."

"Uhm, yes?" she sounds intimidated, and John immediately feels sorry for her. There's no point in trying to stop Sherlock, though.

"And you spend a considerable amount of time together, and he pays attention to you. Also, you most likely share intimate everyday activities like a shower."

Sherlock still doesn't make it sound like questions, but Molly, hypnotized, gives answers, not even caring that Sherlock's questions are incredibly inappropriate. She's used to it. "Yes... Uh, I mean... sometimes-"

But the detective already knows what he wants confirmed and turns back to John (while Molly seizes the opportunity and escapes through the next door – she's already fondling her phone, ready to open a certain group chat). _"Do you see, John?!"_

And John wants to say that these are things best friends do for each other – but as much as he can shove the pay-attention and bring-coffee part into the friends-corner, the whole taking-a-shower-with-my-flat-mate (despite it's only to rescue him from drowning and drugging) is totally not 'friends' stuff.

"So, you... you want me to stop?" he asks, quickly becoming serious and careful now – Sherlock's pondering of the day seems to have reached some sort of conclusion.

"No, don't be an idiot, John!" Sherlock calls out, taken aback and frustrated and staring at him wide-eyed, as if that's the _least_ possible conclusion _anyone_ would draw. "Of course not!"

"Uh, okay?" he shifts from one leg to the other, not at all understanding what else he's supposed to say now, but Sherlock, after drilling his eyes into John's for a moment, suddenly moves over, and puts his hands on John's shoulders (and yes, he half expects, half hopes for a kiss that doesn't come), and says: "Don't you see? I _can_ do this! Nothing has to change!" He is _gleeful_.

But..._ 'this'_ being – what? Really, John does his best, but – just like most of the time – Sherlock's thought processes are not understandable for humans with only one brain.

He braces himself, expects an outburst of 'idiot-clear to see- obvious- you should know- not that hard' but it doesn't come and Sherlock only half-smiles and says: "You love me-" (and maybe John only imagines the small, tiny break after that and the way it sounds just a bit like a question because Sherlock has deduced it and doesn't need to ask but he's not sure and not good with this and he needs reassurance but god forbid he'd say so-) "-and that's why you do all these things. And I can live with them! Nothing has to change. We can just carry on like always!"

And then the penny drops.

Sherlock Holmes is trying to tell him in his Sherlock-y ways that he wants to... he wants to do 'this'.

'This' being a relationship.

'This' being together.

Because he has realized that John doesn't expect him to change, doesn't expect them – their whole dynamic, the crime solving, the man-handling, the experimenting, the Detective-and-Blogger, the John-and-Sherlock-ness – to change, because nothing has to be different.

(It's not like that's what John has been trying to convey every time possible, but it's nice to see that the genius – ha! – seems to understand it now, too.)

"I was rather hoping for breakfast in bed and flowers every morning, though," John teases (because he has suffered and it's only fair) and Sherlock death-glares, obviously already re-considering his announcement.

"A rather ill-judged attempt at humour, I believe."

And John grins. "Obviously." Then he shoves Sherlock's cup in his hands and gently grabs his arm, starting to lead him out of the lab. "And now we're going to stop by Greg and you tell him about the murderer. Come on!"

X

As John leads them outside, his warm, firm hand (ready to shoot cabbies and stitch gashes and make tea and – and that's new – creep up to Sherlock's neck to steady him in a kiss) brushes over his own, longer, fingers and although a part of Sherlock takes a breath in relief when he doesn't do something ridiculous like hold hands, another part finds that the touch feels nice and could – in small doses, when they're home alone – be indeed quite tolerable. Nice, even.

He decides to investigate this later this evening and for now basks in the glow of having had a breakthrough in this whole love-relationship-disaster.

Sherlock Holmes _can be loved._

(And point 20 _can_ be, conveniently, crossed off.)

Now there's only one last thing to find out.

* * *

**RANT ABOUT LONDON:** _It was incredibly amazing, I met so many nice people, and I fell in love with the British all over again. Also, I went to Sherlock filming, AND I HAVE A PHOTO WITH **MARK **BLOODY** GATISS**. Shoot me in the face. He was incredibly nice, and funny, and he had the most adorable freckles all over and... hngh.  
Go visit **my tumblr (hanna-notmontana)** for a really long rant about my fandom holiday :)_


	19. Interlude 2 - A Very Holmes Christmas

_If it's warm and sunny where you live, just put a blanket over your head and pretend it's December and Christmas time. Or, if you're Australian, get out the barbeque!_

* * *

**Interlude 2: A Very Holmes Christmas**

In the morning of Christmas Eve, John lies in bed, comfortable and warm, and ponders if a day-long sulk from Sherlock is worth breaking out into a merry Christmas tune right now.

"Don't," the raspy voice of a sleepy, but nevertheless alert and vaguely threatening sounding Sherlock settles this question for him, but John's mood doesn't drop the slightest and he grins, feeling around for a handful of consulting detective. His fingers grace warm skin and his grin widens when he hears a suppressed snort – being ticklish is not something Sherlock's mind can just rule over and John thinks it's adorable (oh, he can use adjectives like adorable now, he really, actually can, because they're together.) (He's obviously not using these adjectives out loud, though, because if he did, Sherlock would probably dispose of his cold dead body in the River Thames – although he might keep his head in the fridge out of sentiment.)

"I promise not to sing if you wear the jumper."

"_Absolutely_ not."

"Gooood Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen-" John immediately bellows out, still grinning, but he's abruptly cut off by two icy feet that dig themselves into his side and nonchalantly shove him out of the bed. Now, thanks to army days, John is fit enough to coordinate his fall so that he doesn't break is tailbone or anything else important (like his spine, maybe) but the rather unpleasant experience of landing on the ground of the flat only clad in boxers, in late December, in London, is quite different to landing on the floor in cosy, warm Afghanistan. (Cosy being used relatively here, of course. Nothing cosy about war.)

"Oi, you did not just kick me out of bed!"

"I rather think I did," Sherlock snickers (fucking snickers, who does the prat think he is?!) and adds: "I warned you."

"And I warned you – I was in the army!" And that's all John says before he flings himself back on the bed and gives Sherlock a taste of his own medicine by shoving him out of the bed on the other side.

"You _cannot_ shove me out of bed," Sherlock yelps, and the sound of it – sulking, annoyed, petulant – brings back the grin on John's face that seems to have been plastered there all morning.

"Why? Because you're Sherlock Holmes?"

The detective replies nothing, and simply climbs back into bed, cocooning himself into a majority of the blankets but John knows the 'yes' burns behind the cupid's bow lips.

Shoving each other out of bed on Christmas Eve morning is probably not what normal couples do (but then again, normal couples don't have to fight for the right to sing Christmas songs or have a partner who thinks the most festive thing allowed in the flat is a bowl full of pig blood and pieces of dark green, fuzzy mould drifting in it – 'it's Christmas colours, John!') but they are Sherlock-and-John. And it's their first Christmas as a couple.

X

"Have you ever seen Mycroft on a train before?" John asks, sending an amused glance to the older Holmes who looks in disgust at his surroundings and follows them with Greg.

"No, and that is exactly why I'm so fond of them," Sherlock replies easily, mischief and amusement dancing in his expressive eyes.

"Mh, I could get used to a private compartment, though," John muses when they reach the separated part of the train Mycroft's minions have organized.

"Well, he needs it for his massive b-"

"Whatever you plan to say, keep in mind that I have a gun and that I am allowed to shoot you before you finish the sentence," Greg interrupts from behind them.

For a few seconds, Sherlock obviously considers the danger of Greg's threat and the likelihood of John helping him out, and then he shuts his mouth.

"And just to clear this up, I have a whole compartment so there is room for your massive ego. Oh, did I say ego? _Of course _I meant intellect," Mycroft adds sweetly and Sherlock's head whips around, turning from glaring at his brother to giving John a disbelieving look that translates as '_I_ have to shut up and he gets to say that?!'

"Are they going to be like that all the time?" Greg whispers at John, ignoring the glaring Holmeses and when John just nods exasperatedly, he groans.

"Oh Holy Night."

X

You're always smarter _after_ you've experienced something, and both Greg and John, now know that they are never ever taking the train again, not with two Holmeses on board, anyways.

It had seemed like a good idea, because the radio had reported traffic jams all morning – apparently, Christmas Eve had come surprisingly _once aga_in (and even on the same bloody day as every year, almost like birthdays – can you believe it?!) and suddenly a shit load of people had realized they desperately needed to be somewhere else that is _not_ London.

So instead of driving to Holmes Manor by car, Mycroft and Greg had joined John and Sherlock in taking the train.

Well, bloody hell, never again.

Sherlock's plans to spend the holidays hermit-like, locked in his room at the Manor, do sound pleasant, but it's Christmas after all, and surely Mummy Holmes would not approve.

"How about a deal?" John proposes, standing in Sherlock's old room, while the genius lounges in an armchair. They are about to leave (or, well, supposed to leave) for the sitting room for tea and Sherlock is still in I-will-destroy-the-world-or-at-least-Mycroft mode. However, at John's proposal, he looks up, intrigued. How do you get a sulking child's attention? Offer him sweets.

"Mapping?"

"Mapping. _If _you try to not say bad things about Mycroft, or anyone else for that matter, for one hour during tea."

"Deal." The answer is immediate, and John watches how it already starts working in Sherlock's head. With a bit of luck, he'll be so busy with the new mapping-opportunity that he'll be too absent-minded to be too Sherlock-y.

(Mapping is something Sherlock loves, and John feels a bit awkward about. Like anyone might guess, Sherlock likes to catalogue things – tobacco ash, for example – and his new favourite thing to study and catalogue is, unsurprisingly, John. Rather not-dressed John.

The doctor found out about that when he emerged from the shower in only a towel, three weeks ago. Sherlock's intense stare had practically burnt his skin and shortly later, the detective had a drawing pad and a pen in his hands and started to draw a detailed close up of John's pectorals.

He has asked John about it a number of times since then – mostly because he can't simply strip John whenever he wants (would you believe it, but John is rather opposed to that) – and John obviously agreed (better than being tackled and tried to knock out by a catalogue-mood-Sherlock). However, he's not entirely comfortable with it. He's not ashamed of his body, and it's that he has a problem with sort-of-modelling – it's flattering, actually – but… being very naked, next to a very-clothed Sherlock, who gently prods at him, adjusts him so he can draw what he wants… it's become increasingly hard not to… touch back. Do something.)

(And while John is very content with the way they are, he just doesn't trust his body around ridiculously gorgeous Sherlock.)

X

Having survived tea (surprisingly, the two brothers are suddenly very quiet, when under the watch of the mighty Mummy Holmes), Greg and John have taken to wander the hallways of the Manor. For later there is some big dinner planned – from the glances John has had at the dining room, a horde of people is expected – but for now, everyone is free to do what they want.

Mycroft is doing some last-minute phone calls to save the planet or whatever, and Sherlock is going through his childhood belongings in search for long forgotten treasures, so the two boyfriend-less men started to roam the gigantic house.

"I couldn't imagine growing up in here," Greg notes at one point, looking at the painting of yet another long-gone Holmes ('Theophilius', the name plate reads).

"Nah, me neither," John agrees.

"It's like living in a museum. Imagine if you break something- Oi, look!" The DI interrupts himself, and points out of the window, to the curb, where a couple of cars have just pulled up.

The first door opens, and a long, female leg (very naked and very long) exits, followed by the rest of the woman. Well, of The Woman. (John tries to hold down the uprising jealousy that immediately settles in whenever he sees her. He knows it's stupid to feel like that, but… well, their shared history is not too great, considering a twice-drugged Sherlock, her kissing Sherlock and her having worked for Moriarty.)

Irene Adler fully unfolds herself from the car and laughs at something another person, presumably still inside the car, has said.

The other person soon enough turns out to be Anthea (or whatever her name at the moment is – maybe something festive like… Jacky Frost).

"Ha, Mycroft invited the Squad?" Greg exclaims, half surprised, half excited.

John, watching how Mrs. Hudson appears from another car, together with… Angelo? And what appears to be Angelo's son?, asks: "What Squad?"

"Oh, the Love Squad, we're-" Greg stops himself mid-sentence. "Geez, I'm a rubbish DI…. You probably didn't know about us… Uhm… that's a bit awkward…"

"The _Love Squad_? You what – you formed a…a _squad_ for … me and Sherlock?!" John tries really hard not to get worked up but there's only so much surprise he can take on Christmas Eve.

"Don't tell Mycroft I used the name – he hates it with a passion," Greg pleads, although he seems already more excited at the prospect of the new guests than guilty at having busted himself and the… Love Squad.

"Is that Molly?!" John asks unbelieving, eyeing the arrivers with a mixture of shock, betrayal, wonder and a tiny bit of amusement.

"Mh? Yes. Oh and listen, mate – I understand if you're angry or whatever but we really just wanted to help you two. We watched you dance around each other for half an eternity. And now you're together, so it's fine. Right?"

John ponders this for a moment, but finds that he fails to be really angry (it's hard to be angry at a bit of secretive manner when you live with someone who sets fire to your favourite pair of underwear 'FOR SCIENCE, JOHN!') and so he just grunts non-committal.

On a second thought, he adds: "How much was the pool?"

At least Greg has the decency to blush, and he rubs his neck, before sheepishly telling him: "Almost one grand. Basically everyone at the Yard chipped in."

"Well, then the next time we go down to the pub, it's your treat," John decides, before sighing. "I better go and tell Sherlock, then. If I don't show up for dinner, you can probably arrest him for murdering me."

(_Or maybe he tries to murder you, which would be more pleasant for me,_ a bitchy voice – the part of John that feels angry and betrayed about being the subject to meticulous planning and the target of an elaborate plan – adds.)

X

Of course he already knew, or at least suspected about the involvement of a number of people in some sort of scheme. He knew since the evening at Angelo's.

That is the reason for why Sherlock fails to show the proper reaction when John reveals to him what he apparently just found out, and now John is angry at him.

Gah, feelings.

The nice ones are, well, nice.

But things like anger or being hurt are hard to determine and even harder to solve. (John's worth it, though.)

And because John feels hurt and betrayed because Sherlock figured out the involvement of the Love Squad (what a ridiculous name! No doubt Molly or Mrs. Hudson came up with that!) and didn't tell him, Sherlock puts on the white shirt John likes and he doesn't insult John's (frankly horrendous) reindeer-and-snowflakes jumper.

(John doesn't say it but he notices Sherlock's effort and smiles.)

Dinner is bearable enough. Mrs. Hudson, as usually, makes a lot of fuss about him, and John, and the two of them, and she gets along well with Mummy.

Molly and her boyfriend Tim (who looks ridiculously alike to Sherlock, but no one mentions it, not even Sherlock himself after he sees John's raised eyebrow and remembers that he wants to please his doctor) and Angelo and his son entertain the whole table with stories about all sorts of (more or less legal) adventures, told in rapid Italian English and including wild gestures and a lot of noise.

He spends most of the time talking to John, Irene and Anthea (the former one not able to refrain from sending Irene some dangerous glances and placing a possessive hand on Sherlock's thigh – which the detective doesn't mind so much – and keeping a close eye on their drinks; the latter two chatting like long lost friends, combined in their shared love of teasing the Holmes brothers) and – if he's being honest – the whole Christmas-at-the-Manor thing has not been as entirely awful as he has dreaded.

(And although he has made it clear that he will neither give nor receive presents, he is granted access to his trust fund again, which, admittedly, is not exactly unwelcome.)

X

Most of the guests have gone to their rooms by now, when the two unlike brothers find themselves standing in front of the fire, next to each other.

(Someone, probably Mummy Holmes, takes a photo of that and it will later appear as a large print at the end of the line of paintings of Holmes family members.)

The brothers stand next to each other in an oddly peaceful way – they're facing the fire, backs to the photographer, and they both have their hands shoved into their trouser pockets.

Sherlock is wearing his white shirt, with the sleeves rolled back up to his elbows, and so is Mycroft, although he still wears a pin-striped waistcoat.

The light illuminates respectively one side of them, making them creatures of light and darkness, and in that moment, there is no one who doesn't think they are brothers.

In real life, moving life, not a moment captured on film, the brothers talk.

"This hasn't been entirely awful," Mycroft remarks, staring into the flames.

"I suppose," Sherlock replies. After a moment, he adds: "We're not doing this again next year."

"Definitely not."

"Good."

"You should visit Mummy more often, though."

Sherlock snorts. "Without doubt John will make me."

Now, if they were ordinary siblings, Mycroft would probably make a whipping sound, but they're not and so all he does is smile slyly.

"Stop grinning, it makes you look crazy," Sherlock states off-handedly, and then looks back over his shoulder, where he knows John is watching him. "I suspect I'll see you tomorrow."

"Obviously." Mycroft falls silent shortly, and then, in an afterthought, adds: "Merry Christmas."

"Hardly."

"You could at least try it, you know?"

(But Sherlock won't, not for Mycroft, anyways. If he tries, it's for John – and even that is unlikely. It's just Christmas, after all.)

X

He glances over to where John is fast asleep, spread out on his old bed. (Odd, considering no one would have guessed Sherlock would ever have someone in there.)

And then, following an impulse, he quickly sheds his clothes and climbs in, too. Tangles legs and arms with his… John, and the doctor wakes up just enough to mutter: "'You joining me?", sounding pleased and comfortable and content, and Sherlock mutters back: "Sound observation, now shut up and sleep."

His order is being followed promptly, accompanied by a tired "Yes… sir…" (which should not sound as arousing as it does!). Ah, and here is the main core of Sherlock's latest musings.

John and he haven't been intimate. There is kissing, which is nice, and sharing a bed, which makes the abhorred sleep not quite as annoying as it used to be, and of course there is the mapping.

But John never tries anything – he gets aroused, though, of course Sherlock notices – most likely because he thinks Sherlock doesn't want it. And he might have been right a few months ago.

But something has changed, and Sherlock does want it – the only thing that holds him back, still, is one last doubt. Well, _has been_ one last doubt.

Because he's found an answer. And answer to the question.

Is this love?


	20. 19 Love someone

**[Mycroft's addition]  
19. Love someone**

Sherlock finishes his letter at two in the morning. John is soundly asleep in the bedroom they have been sharing for the past weeks and that slowly starts to be filled with John's scent, in addition to his own.  
It is a thing he rather likes about them being in a romantic relationship, as opposed to the messy feelings-part - scent is something scientific, something he can measure, something he can observe - and it's utterly fascinating.

However, his mind doesn't stay occupied with the olfactory aspects of John's and his relationship for long, and his thoughts and attention ultimately wander back to the piece of paper in front of him.  
It is filled with his own scribbly handwriting, signed with a loopy 'Sherlock' and if the Bruce-Partington-Plans have had fatal potential, this letter is every bit as powerful. It might bring down the great Sherlock Holmes, after all.

For a short moment, he contemplates to burn it. John will want to talk about it anyways, so there's really no need for writing it down in the first place - but he (grudgingly and never ever out loud) admits to himself that he's 'rubbish at feelings', how others have put it before, and having everything written down orderly once will help John understand in the (of course highly unlikely) case that his words fail him later.

With one last determined look, he folds the letter in half, shoves a smaller piece of paper between the folds and pins it right in the middle of the kitchen table with a scalpel. (John will be furious but at least he will find it.)

Then he sneaks into the bedroom, grabs some clothes and with one last look at sleeping John Hamish Watson -doctor, blogger, best friend, _John_ - he leaves 221B.

When the sun rises over London, snowflakes dance in its cold light and the silhouette of a tall man in a long coat begins to show on the rooftop of St. Bart's.

X

It's early when John wakes up, the sun has only just began its rise, and he can't put down what caused him to startle up like that.

The flat is eerily silent and what wouldn't have made John feel uneasy a few weeks ago, now puts a bad feeling deep into his guts.

If Sherlock is not experimenting (accompanying sounds being the odd explosion or clinking of vials and test tubes) he has taken to sit next to sleeping John if he needs to think (or sleep, obviously).

However, since the flat is silent and the bed is definitely Sherlock-_lacking_, the detective must've gone out.

John checks his phone - no new messages - before sighing and getting up. Going out at the break of dawn is not too tempting - it's January, after all - but knowing Sherlock anything could've happened. An impromptu morning stroll (not impossible, but also not very likely), the sudden decision to bring John breakfast in bed (very unlikely), Sherlock being kidnapped by ivory traders who mistook his pale skin for their valuable raw material (more likely) or the decision to assassinate Mycroft while Greg's on nightshift (very likely).

Intent on just grabbing some toast before going to search for Sherlock, John enters the kitchen and freezes in the doorstep.

Not because of the scalpel shoved into the kitchen table (or the remains of what might have been a cat once) but because of the note. Because Sherlock never ever leaves a note before going out.

_(It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.)_

John clenches his hands (the tremor is back suddenly and he can't allow it to show, not now) before quickly stepping up to the table and yanking free the folded paper with his name on top of it.

When he unfolds it, another piece of paper flutters out and on the table, but for now, his eyes only catch Sherlock's familiar handwriting. He's holding a letter in his hands.

_"Dear John,  
not so long ago we talked about what people do when they die. They leave a note. And I have never had the chance to do it properly (true, I didn't _die _properly, either, but that shall not be the point now).  
So this is my note, John-"_

John's legs almost give out and only the mental steel he has adopted as his own in the army prevents him from collapsing in shock. He has to force himself to keep reading.

"_So this is my note, John, and although I am in no situation of immediate death, it is, in my opinion (which is almost always the correct one) the best way to come clear with you."_

When John stops reading this time, he is torn between relief and rage because the dramatic git apparently needs to do everything to give John a heart attack and cannot simply write something down that doesn't give him the impression that the detective is probably dead by the time John reads it.

In the end, the curiosity wins over, though, and John resumes his reading.

"_Before I met you, I didn't have friends and to be honest, I didn't think I needed them. I am still not completely convinced that they are good to have, but you showed me that I do need them. In any case, I definitely need you. (Lestrade and the others are debatable)_

_You make me more vulnerable, and drive me to take completely irrational actions that almost got us killed, even, and yet you are the most important part of my life, next to the Work._

_In fact, you are _part of it_, and since the Work has always been part of my life, you are, too. You are the most vital part, John, the part so many people think I am lacking. How are they supposed to find it in me, though, when the whole of you embodies it? How are they supposed to find my heart in me (and, just to be clear, we are not speaking of the organ that is happily pumping blood through my body), when it's _you_? People are so stupid._

_This is getting dangerously close to becoming a ridiculously sentimental letter, so I am going to say just one more thing._

_You know what happens to people who lose their hearts (quite literally, now) - they die. And I certainly would have died many times without you._

_And I can't be sure, because I have never felt like this before, but if the fact that the thought of not spending a considerable amount of my day with you physically hurts, and the pleasant feeling of having you with me are of any indication, I really think I'm in love with you._

_The one thing you never expected of me was that I changed, and I can say with 100% certainty that I will continue to drive you insane and behave like an 'insensitive prat' (your words, although I must protest!) at times._

_I will never do it intentionally, though, (except if we need it for a case, of which I will inform you beforehand… or at least at some point), and although I will hardly voice it on a regular basis, I do love you, John._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. I expect you will want to talk about this, so if you would be so kind as to join me on the roof of St. Bart's?_

_(And if you feel any inclination towards punching me again, I would ask you to reconsider this action since it was a rather unpleasant experience for me and, since you love me, you wouldn't want me to feel miserable, right?)"_

For a small eternity, John just stands there and tries to comprehend what he just read. He reads the letter three more times, a smile getting broader and broader on his face and finally, he carefully folds the letter and puts it into the pocket of his jacket. Then he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text.

**Don't even think of going near the edge. I'm coming. – JW**

Just as he wants to leave (hurry, to Sherlock, bloody wonderful Sherlock, ridiculously dramatic Sherlock) his eyes fall on the second piece of paper on the table.

It's the bucket list. Crumbled, smudged – and completed. The last point, _19. Love someone_, is crossed out.

John shoves it into his pocket, too, where it can keep the letter company for now and hurries out of the flat.

After all, Sherlock is waiting for him.

(Which doesn't happen often, but with him, at least it happens sometimes.)

X

"Beautiful," John states and Sherlock smirks before he replies: "Why, thank you."

That earns a snort from John, followed by a "Talking about the sunrise, git," and then they stand in silence again, watching the sunrise over London.

Finally, John speaks up again. "Why Bart's? I mean, last time you were up here, you jumped. You're not going to do that again."

It's a statement, not a question. Completely unnecessary, though.

"No. But the last time I was up here, it was the closest I ever got to… open up." He cringes at his own words, despite of them being true. He had cried, after all. A first.

"So you really mean it, huh?" John asks, and although Sherlock is still looking at the sun, he can picture the small smile that accompanies John's words in his head.

"Of course."

John needs to, wants to hear it, that much is obvious. And Sherlock doesn't mind saying it every once in a while, he supposes. (He _did_ suspect the letter wouldn't be enough.) So he says it. "I love you, as much as I'm capable of." Admittedly, not Shakespeare material, but honest, and everything he can give.

"That's good. Because I obviously love you, too," John replies (apparently not minding the not-Shakespeare-ness) and now Sherlock grins.

"Oh, and I brought this-" he watches how the doctor fumbles with his pocket for a moment and then produces the bucket list, the thing with which all of this has started. "What do you want to do with it, keep it?"

He immediately shakes his head. "No." He doesn't need it anymore, he's done with it, and everything of importance is safe inside his mind. "Throw it away."

John seems to ponder that for a moment, before he comes to a decision. "Do you have fire?"

"Smoking kills, my doctor says," Sherlock replies drily, but nevertheless hands his friend, lover, partner, blogger, doctor a lighter. Within seconds, the list catches fire and then John drops it over the edge of the hospital roof. (It is a rather dramatic thing to do – but who is Sherlock to point that out)

The two men watch as the burning paper slowly flutters towards the ground (a sharp contrast to the more rapidly descending Sherlock) and it dissolves into ashes that mingle with the snow half-way down.

"Huh, feels odd not to have it around anymore," John states and Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes.

"Oh, please, John, don't be sentimental about it!"

"It did give you something to look forward to, though. You know, a new goal once you were finished with one."

"But there's always something to look forward to-" Sherlock protests, and lets his eyes roam over the rooftops of London. "Every day, a new murderer gets up!"

"Oh joy!" John replies, but it's amused rather than sarcastic.

And as if on command, the blare of sirens starts in the distance, while Sherlock's phone 'bing's in his coat pocket.

"I seems there is a new case, Detective," John remarks and Sherlock sees how his body tightens with anticipation at the prospect of a new job. John loves the cases almost as much as he does, and that's what makes him perfect.

"Sound observation, Doctor."

They share one last look, and then Sherlock spins around, strides towards the door to the stairs with his coat billowing behind him and calls out: "Do keep up!"

"Right there," John calls back, and it's true in every way.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed it, and I want to thank you one last time for everything you said. Reviews (good or pointing out things you didn't like) were and are always welcome! Some of you liked the Love Squad, some don't, and I'm glad you told me how you felt about them, and John, and Sherlock, and the whole story._  
_Love always,_  
_Hanna_

* * *

_If someone does **fanart**, please contact me either via PM here or on **my tumblr (hanna-notmontana)**! I'd hate to miss out on it._


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